The past four days have knocked me squarely on my rear. Three flights, up and down, up and down. My things, my books. His things, his books.
His friends. My friends. Family. Lots of help.
My bike, his shelves. Bags of clothes, boxes of DVDs. Different copies of Catcher in the Rye, American Gods, The Shipping News, The Road. Same copies of Norton. That’s what you get when English majors fall in love with each other. Conversations about Harold Bloom and Stephen Greenblatt. Also about Mad Men, Buffy, and the Utah Jazz.
And also about how we’re going to play basketball against his brother and sister-in-law and win. Of course we’ll win.
His Spanish books. My French ones. Comparisons of the forthcoming lune de miel/luna de miel.
And maybe blushing a little.
Putting together three more six-foot shelves. Lining the walls in the guest room. We’ve called it the study. But there are also his guitars and amp and my clarinet.
Thank goodness for cheap particle board. Precedes first-anniversary paper, which becomes appropriate in a year and 32 days. My bike tool with several types of screwdrivers and miniature wrenches works with a former roommate’s hammer. The books now have a home. They didn’t like the floor. I didn’t like them on the floor.
Someday they’ll actually be organized.
I threw away four boxes of school papers that were not appropriate for a first anniversary. Much easier than I thought it would be.
My diploma cover waits for a BYU diploma. It waits to sit next to a diploma from the University of Utah.
The irony of his blue Snuggie and my red one.
We have his television. His Playstation. My Wii.
My spices. His boxes of cereal.
When we run out of food, at least we’ll have books. We can eat those, but most likely the mass-market paperbacks first.
People have been so generous with the registry. Thank you.
Newly developed photos of a recent bridal shoot. His black suit and purple tie. My white dress and purple bouquet.
My Reilly. His May.
His past stories, mine. Share now to make future ours.
More conversations, more time together. More love and acceptance than I have ever known.
Sitting upright, legs out like a doll’s, disoriented. Sore. I shake myself present. The moment comes into focus. These past four days, damn.
Our happiness. All ours.
2 thoughts on “Not a Concussion, but Maybe a Slight Butt Bruise”
Love this. All of it.
concussions can be dangerous that is why you always need to have some x-ray or cat scans to make sure that it does not have some complications…
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