A Regenerative Love

We went into the city early, just the two of us. Picked up fresh tomato and orzo pasta from the little corner market to hold us over ‘til dinner. Donated three mountains of clothes that have the audacity. May God bless some girl somewhere and her small hips and her new denim shorts.

We weaved through a stuffy tangle of antique books and dresses and weird, Christmas treasures. Diagnosed each other with low blood sugar levels to justify bending into a shared cocktail Lady and the Tramp style. Made ourselves sick over our favorite plate of Tex-Mex on a patio with industrial fans. And we laughed. We, like, really laughed.  

Our bodies hurt by 7pm. We shed our shoes on the car ride home and joked about feet as dogs barking. Yawns volleyed across the center console, and we realized that we’re older than we used to be, that we’re so used to being young. Used to worn-out habits. Used to who we were before. Used to jamming into pants that don’t fit us anymore. Used to keeping peace, making empty deals that we’ll rescind. Used burying the hatchet (in a clearly marked space) should we ever need him again. 

We could stoke four-hundred reasons why I fell for you back then, but the truth is, you’re *you* now, my older, better friend. Do you not perceive it? Do you dwell? Do you belabor what’s been? A gorgeous stream there in the wasteland, it springs up for the kids. May we toast our endless glasses to a regenerative love. May we gather all our buckets. May we drink from them. Amen.