"Let the gratefulness overflow into blessing all around you. Then, it will be a really good day." Louie Schwartzberg
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Celebrating my cow man and a love letter (the third)

posted by Susan Dominikovich on , , , , ,

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Late afternoon, the sun was shining and the birds were chirping.  I wrapped my skirted legs around yours on our garden swing, gently swaying as we sat.  We watched.  And waited.

And we breathed.  

We inhaled spring and exhaled winter.  Every breath a relief and a solace.

You pointed out the tui on top of the tallest pine.  It was perched there at the very tip, immobile, and like a heavy star on the Christmas tree, we expected the branch to bend under its weight.  It didn't.  Motionless.  Still.  

You squeezed my hand and said, "it's a sign..."

"Of what?"  I asked.

And you laughed because you really had no idea.  I said, "it's not a sign; this is a sign.  All of this."

The stillness.  The peace.  The beauty.

The rest.

And I squeezed your hand harder, knowing you had to go back to work, back to town to be master of ceremony at an event.  You were a little nervous even though you were born for the role.  Born to command, to dictate and to entertain.  Born to keep a crowd at ease while carrying on a whole programme of events.  But at that moment you were still by my side and still mine, all mine.  You didn't belong to hundreds of maths enthusiasts then.  Just to me.

I remember writing about the Cow Man in our lives, celebrating our heroes, not for one moment thinking that I would come to this place of absolutely depending upon and needing several heroes in my life.  I needed them; they stood up.  And I celebrate them again.

More than anyone, you stood up.  As you always have and always will.  You stood up for me, made the phone calls that needed to be made, said the things that I needed to hear and held my hand.  Because that's what you were born to do.  You were born to be my hero, my Cow Man and I am grateful.

You slipped away from me into the dusk and I sat a little while longer on our swing.  Alone with the tui and a gentle breeze.  Alone, but not afraid.  For a moment at least, not afraid.

Alone, I inhaled spring and exhaled winter.

And I rested.

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