He caught me looking at him. He was driving.
I was staring at his white hair, slowly taking over where his dark brown locks had once curled around his ears.
I looked down at my lap, where his hand was holding mine. Where his hand has always held mine, any time he was driving, for as long as we have been together. This June 7th marks 16 years and roughly 9 months.
I notice the lines forming in his skin. The freckles and spots. The looseness around his knuckles.
His age is showing, just like it is showing in my hands.
No longer are his hands long and thin. They are big and strong.
The track on the CD changes, and from every voice in our van comes the beautiful noise of praise as we all sing the Angel Army song (Chris Tomlin-Whom Shall I Fear?).
He releases my hand so he can turn up the music.
As he grabs my hand again. He takes his fingers and returns my engagement ring to a straight-up position and I laugh.
Out of habit, as soon as he had let go of my hand, I twisted it to the side. It sticks out pretty far and tends to scratch the kids, so I keep it laying down.
When he holds my hand it hurts his finger, so he twists it back up, where it should be anyway.
The routine of it all, makes me smile.
I turn away, and gaze out at the mountains in the distance. A tear forming in the corner of my eye.
I remember a little girl. A little girl who a long time ago asked God for someone. Someone to love her.
She wanted to be part of a couple like ones in The Notebook, dying with each other because they can’t imagine being apart. She wanted to sit on a porch in rocking chairs and watch their grandchildren. She wanted someone to make her feel safe and she would be his soft place to fall.
I looked back at my husband and he turned to me and smiled, still singing with our children.
Suddenly, I realized that I was on the road. I was on the road to porches and rocking chairs and watching grandchildren.
I was in the thick of the memory making and trouble causing and good times and bad times. I was past the honeymoon.
The white-hot passion of new love had become the red-hot passion of a love matured.
God had given me my someone. My someone who He created just for me.
There are no white horses or shiny armor. There are fights and kisses and dirty socks and bubble baths and burnt dinners and laughing and it is all blissfully normal and exhausting and 100% real life.
I am safe. He has a soft place.
He still sees his girl.
I still see my guy.
Lately, I’ve been seeing him… seeing him with me in rocking chairs.