The One
It’s true, thanks to the colorist, the first touch of winter’s grey has been disguised, and it’s true, too, lines are forming about the corners of her eyes, but she is a woman more beautiful than any words on paper can describe.
A body no longer adorned or shaped by Givenchy.
Her breasts, once firm, no longer point immodestly. The curves and contours of her body, once maintained by discipline and hard physical workouts, now content with long walks between the morning bath and the darkness of the bedroom, yet she remains wholly who she is; a woman having done all of life’s chores, chopped, sliced, mothered, washed, dressed, grated, burned, painted, hammered, loved, lost, kicked, and cursed, and yet contrived in some God given womanly way to be in my life as my truest friend; the kind of friend only love can support.
She is not perfect: she’s been too hot, too cold, been joyous, depressed, ill, and very ill, warmly funny, cuttingly cold, and yet on any other day sparkle like lemonade. She has raised children, held children, lost children, and been left by children. She is the only woman I want to lie beside, content in the language of sleep, or drowning in the warmth of her breasts, her body pulling me in. I’ve been everywhere, seen everything I ever wanted to see. I’ve been afloat on every ocean looking for her light to guide me home. I’ve spent days lost in cities and listened for her calling.
No, she is not a dream, not a fantasy. One day, out of the blue, she came. I fell so madly in love with her. I mean head over heels, head to toe, slap bang into the magical world of her and all she is. This most beautiful, complete woman.
