Page 30 of More With You

Scrambling to my feet, I make a run for the door, only to slow my pace halfway toward it. I don’t want to seem like I’ve been waiting, because I haven’t. Not really. At least, I don’t think I have, but my heart is beating out of my chest like this is the sole reason I’ve stayed up past midnight on a “sick day.”

My knees turn to jelly as I take the last handful of steps toward the front door, and my lungs strain to let me know I’m holding my breath and need to exhale and inhale again. I do just that, the air shivering out of me in a nervous gasp, before I gulp in another lungful.

“Who’s there?” I ask, to be on the safe side.

Silence echoes back.

“Hello? Is someone there?” I’m puzzled, my hand on the door handle.

More silence.

Now, I’m not even sure I want to open the door. Ben would answer, but he’s not. So, maybe it’s not him, despite the feeling of him that’s making my skin tingle and the fine hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end.

“Hello?” I repeat: my voice unsteady.

In the distance, I hear a rumble. It’s not thunder, though the evening has been thick with the threat of a downpour. No, I know what that sound is.

Panicked, I throw open the door… to find the front porch empty. Whoever knocked is gone, along with the roar of an engine fading into the night. My feet are bare, but I consider sprinting up to the gate to see if I can catch Ben before he disappears. Instead, I step out onto the porch and pull my cardigan tighter around myself, even though it’s not cold.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice something sitting on the warped wooden boards, close to the nearest pillar that holds up this rickety excuse for a veranda. It’s wrapped in brown paper and tied with a white ribbon, neatly fashioned into a bow. There’s an envelope tucked into the ribbon, with my name elegantly etched on the creamy paper. The “S” swirls in black ink, slightly separated from the rest of the cursive letters, and there’s a flourish under my name that would’ve given a professional calligrapher a run for their money.

I crouch to pick up the package and envelope, but I don’t take them back inside. With my eyes fixed on the gate and the road beyond, half-curtained by the Spanish moss that drapes from the live oaks which guard the border of my property, I tip back onto my behind. Clutching the gift to my chest, I scoot forward to the top step of the porch and sit there for a minute or two, in case Ben only pretended to leave. Maybe he’s watching me from somewhere in that distant gloom.

But it’s silent out there and I can’t feel him anymore.

“Why would he stay?” I tell myself. “You told him you needed time. He’s respecting your wishes.”

Half-respecting them, anyway. I’m not sure if dropping packages at the door counts as breaking the rules, but it turns my attention back to the wrapped parcel.

Delicately, I undo the ribbon and wrap it around my hand, so I don’t lose it. Three equal pieces of clear tape hold the brown paper in place, and though I unpeel the tape carefully, there’s nothing I can do to stop the paper from ripping slightly. It exposes the back of a picture frame, and my nerves skyrocket. I almost don’t want to turn the gift over. I’m scared of what I might find.

“Just get it over with,” I urge, setting the paper and envelope to one side.

My knuckles whiten as I grip the frame. Slowly, I turn it over onto my clenched knees. The breath I’ve been holding is snatched right out of my lungs and my heart swells so wide in my chest that it takes the place of that lost air.

Color bombards my eyes. A rich, molten sunset of textured oranges and reds and purples and blues, just off the corner where the Bayou Bend meets the ocean, which reflects that vivid sky. I know because a small section of the shack is just visible to the left of the picture, as if the rest of the structure is tucked underneath the driftwood frame.

There’s a boat out on the water, with a tall sail and a flag caught in mid-wave at the top of the mast. The sleek, long body of the boat draws my gaze up to where three figures stand against the railing. They’re silhouetted by the sunset, but I can tell they’re facing away from me, watching the beautiful sky. The tallest figure, definitely a man, appears to have his arm around a woman to his right, while his hand is holding that of a smaller figure on his left. Unmistakably, a child.

Is this what you see for us?

I look back toward the gate, wishing we could see the world through the same eyes.

Uncertain how to feel, I lay the picture on my lap and take up the envelope. Like a little description card next to a painting in a gallery, maybe it’ll enlighten me.

Summer,

I’m a painter, not a poet, but if I could write like I paint, you’d inspire 360 sonnets—one for every day of every year I got to be with you. If I were a poet, it would be my greatest collection. But, right now, words fail me, so I’ve used my version of poetry to show you what’s in my heart.

You asked for space, and this isn’t my attempt to breach that. I just want you to know that you’re on my mind. You’re always on my mind. Southern summers seem never-ending, but this one is going too fast, and I feel the minutes slipping by, out of my control. I just don’t want those minutes to turn into days or weeks without you. I don’t want to spend any more summers without you.

You’re the muse, the inspiration, the magic that a man can spend a lifetime searching for, yet fate saw fit to bring you to me and me to you. Trust in that, just once more, and I’ll make sure you don’t regret it. When I think of tomorrow, when I think of next week, when I think of Christmas, when I think of this time next year and the years beyond that, you’re in every image. I want more of what we started. I want more of you. I want…more with you.

Don’t say that my Summer is over. Not yet.

If I could, and you decide you can, I’d make it everlasting.

Yours,

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