Certain things waft in a joy that is hard to contain in a moment and invariably explodes to invade and linger in a million more. Like cleaving through clear blue waters in the early light of a summer morning, surrendering to the silken touch and pleasant chill. It’s in the wildly beating heart that is quietly aware of the trajectory of a lover’s glance resting on the sheen of your shoulder and jumping back to your eyes, before resting on your mouth, and knowing that it is the prelude to a kiss, unplanned and unexpected, springing up on you with a delightful nervousness, and you are consumed with a love so profound it makes you dizzy and lingers infinitely in each recall, as you are sure to do it.
Like driving down a tree-lined road on an autumnal day, spellbound by the play of orange and grey. It’s in a tiny arm wrapped around your neck and another tiny hand gripping your nose as a baby leans in to plant a wet sloppy kiss on your cheek. It’s in stroking the papery skin on the hands of a grandmother and tracing the age spots as she tells you endless tales interspersed with adorable gummy smiles. It’s in sitting on the verandah of a place far away from home, rolling your toes up and down the spine of a big, brown and instantly familiar dog that lets you rub the back of its warm fuzzy ear as it watches the sun go down with you. Or in the reading a big book that leaves you exhausted, agitated, mollified, troubled, understood and speculative, all at once. It’s in the joy of finding the right words at the right moment. And when serendipity finds you.
It’s in reading a poem so good that you want to gobble it up and never let it go. It’s in cuddling up to a parent, unabashedly evoking your inner child, the one that loves the familiar hand running through your hair and remain cocooned in a safety and comfort rarely replicated ever again. Like the reading a letter from the one you love again and again, mouthing each word; and imagining him write your name in that intimate and slightly lopsided print. It’s also in the head thrown back in laughter as you sit down with an old friend to indulge in the joy of reminiscing, sitting on a terrace, and exchanging stories in the long blue twilights of summer.
Like walking up a narrow, winding road on wet, misty mornings to a picturesque home with ivy-lined stone walls and a blazing log fire, and remain nestled by a window where the clouds knock. It’s always in the hills, in the sound of water, at dawn, in the foamy waves, in the scintillating stars, and in the trees. It’s in staying awake to hear the rain splattering off the roof and window sill. It’s in getting soaked to the skin, and shivering and shivering, kicking puddles, and laughing and laughing. It’s in speed. And also in Sunday siestas. It’s in splurging on expensive lingerie and wearing them underneath an old t-shirt and a faded pair of denims on an ordinary day, just because it ushers in such a secret, solitary, risqué joy. And in wearing cherry red lip colour.
It’s in driving aimlessly, on impulsive journeys. It’s also in no longer mothballing the past and lugging around the deadwood; it’s in the anticipatory joy of opening new doors. It’s in the stories we tell each other in the dark, just the two of us, with our bare hearts and slowly entwining memories, letting each other into our secret worlds. It’s in the sanctity of trust. It’s in epiphanies and clear realizations. It’s in the responsibility of love, the urge to care for and protect; the knowledge and awareness of which thrives us. It’s in working endlessly to watch dreams materialize into something substantial.
It’s in the desire to share and live these simple joys with you; it’s in everything between us.