The Weight of Years, The Lightness of Love

I watch her from across the kitchen,
the morning light pouring over her hands,
those graceful, weathered hands wrapped around a coffee mug,
steady as ever, though time has brushed silver into her hair.

And in this quiet, golden hour,
as I sip my last sip of lukewarm coffee,
I see not just the woman before me—
I see all the women she has been.

The not-so-young young girl, nervous and laughing,
slipping her hand into mine on our wedding day.
The fierce mother, cradling concern for her children
through sleepless nights.
The steadfast partner who held our world together
when sorrow and reversals came knocking at the door.

I remember the times I mistook her silence for anger,
her weariness for indifference.
I remember my impatience,
while all she ever wanted was to make things right,
to hold our lives carefully in her hands.

Every quarrel, every long night,
now softened in memory—
small, stubborn stones in the river of a life we built,
a life that bent, but never broke.

I remember the seasons when love felt like work,
when anger seemed louder than hope,
when I wondered if tomorrow would still find us together.

And yet—here she is.
Here we are.
Still choosing, still trusting,
still stitching ourselves back together
with worn but willing hands.

She catches my gaze across the light.
Smiles—that small, familiar smile.
"More?" she asks.
"Yes," I say, and in that word
I pour every year, every tear, every mercy,
every fierce, quiet, extraordinary thread of love
we have spun between us.

Yes.
Always yes.

Bob Martin