You lie under this man whom you know you will marry, though you've only been together for a few weeks, and he doesn't know your fanciful plan yet, but you're so sure, so enchanted about him because he is tender, and loves you so much that he sweats profusely the first time you make love.
Such sweet shyness, truest love — and yes, you hear him whisper I love you when maybe you weren't meant to yet, shakily taking his hushed words into your heart, and understanding this is great love, in all its inevitable awkwardness unfolding as you and he forge an intimacy all your own until you are seized with an ice cold panic that this is the last man you will have sex with, but you try not to overthink it, concentrating on savoring the bright newness of your union, that will turn into a pilot light discreetly glowing more than three decades with this man, who that first night, bravely reached for his heart, sliding it out of his chest, giving it to you — a heart dripping and raw and naked like the two of you, like the first human heart you once saw on the cover of Life Magazine and you will never get over the feeling that you won't have to doubt this man's heart is yours to cradle.
You assume nothing because you’ve been through too much with too many boys who will never be men –boys who taught you hard lessons on the cruel semantics of love when they tell you they love you but are not in love with you – and you think all over again fuck them all, and then you realize you fucked them all but this man you're intertwined with now and forever, you deliberately do not fuck, will gently rearrange your fate, redeem your faith in love and yourself, will love you without pause.
He is concerned you are crying and you want to say, don’t worry, you and I are made of sweat and tears – fluids of a life, and over the years he will show you that such comfort is imbedded in the stitching that joins your lives together, and you know you will love your life with this man even when you are sad or desperate or angry with him – this man who is too modest to accept your gratitude but only wishes you could see in yourself what he sees in you, this man who you want to describe as an angel but you don't because you do not wish to imply that he is wispy as in ethereal and otherworldly, but strong in the way someone shoulders your convoluted world with grace, and you are no longer scared, but relieved he will be the last man you will sleep with, your relief segueing into happiness you do not have an exact name for, all the while wondering what good deed you did to bring you to this season of a complicated joy?
What a beautiful love letter.
Beautiful, Judy!