I Don't Love You Like That

To my Beth,

It's true. I don't.

Not like they say it in the movies, anyway. The mushy, gooey, lovey-dooey monologues usually beginning with a statement derived from the unexplainable "feeling inside of me."

No. Sorry. I don't love you like that.

But my hands crave yours. My eyes want to soak up your image. My nose loves to nestle in the curls of your hair. My mouth shuts down when you're around so my ears can have you all to themselves.

That's how I love you.

My brain says you're awesome. My occipital lobe sees it plain and clear. My temporal lobe will never forget you.

My arms want to hug you when you're angry. My cheeks want to let your tears roll from your face over mine. My feet want to follow you, step behind you, next to you, but never over you.

That's how I love you. It's not hard to explain.

When you laugh my heart beats. When shout my neck turns. When you stop my butt rests.

You see, I don't have many feelings to share. But I do have actions, because that's how I love you.

Happy Anniversary.

You'll always be beautiful to me. I love you.

A Bit of Scotch Tape, Please.

I woke up and it was tomorrow.

The rain splattered my windows. The shades, old and twisted rollers, were pulled down and hiding the funk outside. National Weather Service forecasts a 100 percent chance for precipitation. I wonder why they call that a chance.

Jonah grunts from his bassinet tied to the side of my queen-sized bed. The sound is bigger than him by at least two pounds and a handful of ounces. I like his chubby cheeks, his button nose. His smell, sweet and sour and as beautiful as smell can be.

In 39 hours I'll proclaim his first month of life.

Did I miss a day or two or ten? I thought just yesterday I laid his head in the crook of neck to sleep on the folding couch of our hospital's delivery room.

I'm applying scotch tape to my eyelids this very moment. I'll use three pieces just to make sure I don't blink and miss something, like the quiver of his lip when he's grumpy. Like the grey, probing eyes following shadows on the wall. Like the fountain of pee that strikes with precision at nearly every diaper change. Like the gentle cooing so closely resembling a squeaking toy.

Like the baby tears puddling on his rosy cheeks because he wants his mommy so bad.

I don't sleep as well anymore at night. Not because Jonah won't let me. I'm afraid I'll miss something. I might doze off, and when I wake up, it might just be tomorrow.