Sometimes Love Looks Tender

The kids are asleep and it's Movie Night. Lonny and I hunker under the covers. His body curls around mine, arm draped around and over. Just like always. For twenty-some years.

The movie begins. The plot is strong. I try, really try, to stay awake. But there's warmth and soft and Lonny's even, deep breath. There's a week of weary, from Lonny's travel, and the boys were mine, all mine.

I'm lulled. Pulled deep.

And the drifting is sweet.

I wake later, when music from the credits billows through room. Movie Night is over. And I've missed it. The movie. The togetherness.

Our time.

I've missed it all.

"I'm sorry," I say, quiet and foggy and dim from sleep.

Lonny stands over, gently tugs my glasses. Folds them carefully. Sets them on the table beside the bed. Then he smiles, soft and strong.

And this tenderness breaks me.

Sometimes love is in the most simple gestures.

My husband leans forward, to brush his lips over my cheek, to whisper "goodnight", and I'm lost, drifting again.

But I know that Movie Night is over

and I haven't missed a thing.

Happy Valentine's Day, Sweet Friends.....


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Writing News: An excerpt from my story "Midnight Grace", Chicken Soup for the Soul: Food and Love, is in Feb. 20 issue of Woman's World (in stores now). Thank you, God!