I am tempted to stop colouring my hair, to let go of my red hair at last, admit defeat and welcome with open arms the grey that is gaining ground on my coarse mane. I haven’t coloured my hair since the Ronald McDonald Hair Disaster of October, my temples are white as snow. Two nights ago, we lay in bed, your hands were in my hair and I just don’t know if I have the guts to be the woman there underneath the colour, even now.
You got glasses this fall, my darling, and when you put them on, you look like such a grown-up to me. I know that to the rest of the world we’re grown ups – tinies, mortgage, mini-vans, careers, all so convincing. You had on your work clothes, those dress pants and a tie, we were talking of a Christmas bonus and dance recitals and suddenly it feels like the earth is spinning a bit too fast. Aren’t we 19 still somewhere? How many Christmases is this for us? I wonder aloud, and without missing a beat, you say 13, babe, do you want a cuppa tea?
We’re on the couch tonight, my luv, the night of Christmas, quiet and resting at last. You’re reading Miroslav Volf, I teasingly call him Your Boyfriend, you have such a crush. The book is 6 inches from your nose (where are those glasses, you goof?), you always hold my narrow foot, rubbing your thumb on the bottom, tracing circles absently, I love to look at you.
You thrill me. I’ll kiss that collar bone when both of our hair is white as snow, I promise.
Will there ever be a time when we feel caught-up on our life? My feet are aching after the past two days so I’m glad for the gentle way you hold my foot. We’ve just had our Christmas and I think it’s more fun to be the grown-up at Christmas, the maker of the magic and memories.
We had a Christmas Eve parade, all tinies in their jammies, grown-ups in charge of the hot chocolate thermos. I sang Joy to the World while we walked, off key, and someone opened their door, they thought it was a caroler, but it’s just us, always just us out in the dark, singing about love and joy and the glory. It was chaos; noisy and fun all day, Joe got a fire engine – heaven help us. I wanted to hide with a book by late afternoon and you understood, you always do, thank you. You ate the pumpkin cheesecake I made and risked the wrath of the entire clan when you declared it better than any other dessert but I can see you eating apples for comfort now.
“We’re only true persons in relation to our communion,” you read aloud to me, and yes, darling, I already know.
You taught me that. Put down that book now, luv. It’ll keep until tomorrow.
I write now and then about what love looks like for us.