The Return of Man

So in my excitement over my husband’s early return home I neglected to post my enthusiasm, let alone write anything at all. I’m also still trying to kick this cold. Now I have my helpmate to ease the work so I can recover. (I am his too. We are more mutual (egalitarian) in this household.)

I am giddy he’s home. I don’t like time away from my spouse. Frank is my best friend. He’s the person I can spend hours with and it only feels like seconds. Most wives I hear complaining about needing time away from their husbands. They also prefer their girl time. Call me strange, but I just don’t feel that way. I’d rather be with Frank than my girlfriends, or anyone else for that matter; no offense. There are few people I feel comfortable to vent to, let go of reservations, and truly be myself around. He is the person I’m closest to and can relate to best, which is interesting because we are very different in our personalities. He should be my closest comrade though because he is my husband. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder, especially when you have some days where you don’t even call each other due to busy schedules.

Nighttime has been difficult though—the only thing I’ve been less than thrilled to mesh again, at least while we are snot-filled messes.

A cough vibrates the midnight hour
awakening me to a groggy state,
slumber staved yet again.
Then his arms thrash, as if defending himself from nightmare’s predators,
and accidentally pummel my delicate flesh.
Grumpily, I toss and turn,
trying to tune out his senseless babble.
He continues snoozing, but his clogged nostrils cause repetitive air tunnels (an infrequent occurrence I’ve yet to grow accustomed to).
When sleep will not envelop me, I jolt out of bed and pace.
My pounding head pleads for rest.
I know it’d cure my illness; this cold might take its leave.
I might finally be well, but alas the balm of slumber shall not occur tonight.
Apparently, we still need to adjust our habits
and learn to share this bed again.

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