Because We Are Older Now

Last night, we made love for the first time
in a long while. You held me as you always
have, a little uncertainly, and then with resolve.
When we finished, we slept well. This morning,
alone in the house, I am considering the portraits
our daughter sketched years ago, framed against
the green wall. In every iteration, her mother
has a simple smile, kind eyes, and I am moved
by the carefulness with which she drew me,
by the idea that she might experience me as kind.
And now the black dog sits directly in front of me
so that I cannot help but see him. He wants
to chase a rabbit in the backyard, where weeds
line the fence behind the daylilies and firewood
has been left again in the rain, where, for your fortieth
birthday, we strung lights and wore party hats
with friends. I was having a hard go of it that night,
had been in my head for weeks, wondering
what we’ll have left between us when she’s grown
and gone. I asked you, Is this the life you wanted?
Because I wanted more. I had never asked before.
I wasn’t sure what we could take. And I will feel that way
again, I know it, will daydream myself into a sunlit
apartment on a hill. And, because we are older now,
and not as afraid as we were when we were young,
I will tell you about it. And we’ll go from there.