For my husband, David, the love of my life, written on Easter morning.
Tell me you made love without telling me you made love. That you woke to something more than twenty or forty or fifty years in the creation. That nights and decades of masking and unmasking, unfeeling then suddenly feeling, pouring salty sweet into one another, on to one another, each needing a goodly amount of water after and lying exposed like you both never have been, every time—it wasn’t as simple as they make it out in movies. No, it is something much more figure eight than that, something beyond the life and death of what you believed it should be, should have been. Will be. Something extraordinary. Something divine. Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright March 31, 2024, all rights reserved
