On time and being

Sometimes, we had no time for each other. Those empty reaches of our love still haunt me, too. There was so much we could have done with it.

We had opposing schedules often. Sometimes, I would be in school and working while she held down her 9-5 or 8-5, even 7 to 4 schedule. These times were made even rougher by her and my need to run everywhere to maintain our harried modern life.

They feel so vastly squandered now. I should have insisted on a midweek, standing date. I should have demanded more than a meal and silence as I worked online and she watched TV.

I should have. There was no guarantee it would have helped, though. Not with Marcie. Demands were the easiest path to refusals with her, especially if they raised her ire or she felt there was a point to be made.

We did have halcyon days when my work was light and she could call on me to run errands. I remember working for the learning annex and running a check on all of their distribution boxes in San Diego.

It might take two days per week, and only a few hours then, unless there were problems. I wrote for the paper on the side from home. She could call and I would be off to serve, with joy and pride in it.

These were the days of our greatest romantic resurgence. It only ended with her disease.

"I love you," she said. "Things are so good right now, and i was very worried about you. About us."

She was smiling and covered in the summer sheets as the light of an early summer evening flowed in indirectly from our apartment window. But she was biting her lip.

"I know," I said. "I feel like we're back in our 20s again, meeting during the day for dates and at night for... this."

I smiled and she stuck her tongue out with a little near-silent "ha-ha" that was more likely at the top of the range of her voice than actually quiescent. We slid together and cuddled.

I was thinking of the times we had missed and sighed, squeezing her a little as she rested her head on my chest.

"I feel like I missed out a lot when i was working two jobs," I said. "I know we both did..."

"Shhh..." she hushed me, pecking me on the cheek and holding my hand in both hers, squeezing.

She agreed, by her squeeze, fierce and strong, but she never believed in crying over spilled milk, especially in the wake of joy.

And so, taking that cue from her, I will feel her calm reassurance and simple agreement, remember the smell of her and the joy of her when we had nothing but time for each other, and smile.

And, for now, I will "shh..."