I love how the little blooms out front have begun their languorous opening volley to spring, the accompanying sense of hope and wonder in the tiniest of offerings. Hummingbirds have laid claim to the nectar, daring in their proximity, mere inches from my weeding and trimming.
The hubster and I were lying in bed Saturday night, bone tired but full of words, and I asked him to tell me stories of way back when. Apart for the first two years, driving on weekends between Arvada and Fort Collins and writing letters during the week because a stamp cost a lot less than a long distance phone call. We were kids, but our love felt so grown up, playing no games with our hearts.
We did all the things we do now and then some, camping and skiing and snow shoeing, long walks and hikes, discovering new-to-us restaurants. Then there were the hours tucked away in dark theaters and coffee shops, eager for each other and the words that filled the space. And the silence, too, holding hands and gazing at the pink of the horizon, a sliver of moon, or a canopy of stars, dreaming of what we’d become, but mostly grateful for all that we were at that very moment. Together and happy, the luckiest people on earth.