My Husband Walking In The Hills.

I love early mornings. It’s the time for hope. Those minutes standing on our mini porch, my bare feet on the cool cobblestone, my hands around a steaming cup of coffee. And I’m looking out. 

Inhale, exhale. The new day’s air. The promise of getting it all done. But then I spot him. He’s in the hills across the road, and I’m completely arrested. He’s so tiny. A huffing speck. I strain my neck and my eyes, my lastima wanting a confirmation. It’s definitely him.

My husband. Walking in the hills. His calves pulling and his face automatically crunching under the exertion. There’s a big mount to finish, and for a second he doubts he can do it. And I want to scream out, “Yes, you’ve climbed so much higher before!” But the sound would never reach him. 

So although my lastima is begging me to run inside, to redirect my attention on to something else, anything else, an else that won’t break me down, I force myself to stay put. To watch him, sweaty and struggling. Because he always makes it. Because on his own, he climbs. Because he is coming closer, coming home, coming to me.

p.s. I’m a Capricorn. A goat on a mountain just feels right.