GROWING 05.12.2013

I was sitting on the edge of the tub, watching him shave, when I fell in love with him. He tilted his head to glide the razor along his jawbone, and-- just like that-- I was smitten. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, I saw him in ten years, twenty, fifty. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to be sitting on the edge of a tub watching him shave when we were old and saggy.

A few years later, I found myself lying in a tent, high up on a mountain in Utah. After a long day of driving in the desert sun, I was exhausted. Instead of sleeping, though, I listened to him breathe, deeply and steadily. Turning my head, I could barely see him in the diluted stream of moonlight, but his silhouette was lovely and familiar, even though I hadn’t seen him in months. I thought about all of the nights I had spent lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling in that same diluted moonlight, wondering what it would be like to have him all warm and breathing beside me. And there he was.

I had half-expected this adventure to be excruciating. I had worked hard to get over him, to move on and move forward, and I knew this would be a test. I was scared that maybe I hadn’t made as much progress as I thought-- that being friends with him was impossible, and that I wouldn’t discover that unfortunate fact until we were deep in the desert, with no way out. As he groaned in his sleep and rolled onto his side, tugging his sleeping bag up to his chin, I felt a wave of relief. In that moment, I could see how much I had grown, how much we had grown.

There he was, all warm and breathing beside me, and it felt good.