I remember a day, many, many years ago when I was sitting in my corner dorm room. It was a sunny Sunday, our row of windows were cracked and I was sitting on the couch, wondering. Actually, I was hoping. The kind of hope that knotted my stomach and made me peek out the window every now and again. I was hoping M would call. I was hoping I might see him pass by my window, not casually on the way somewhere else, but purposefully coming to see me (this was before beepers and cell phones). It was the kind of hope that made me blush at the thought of him knowing how much I hoped. I remember how unfamiliar it felt, maybe even a little uncomfortable, yet exciting and warm. It was welcomed.
As I sit here in my comfy chair on my deck, on the lot on the corner, I’m hoping. M is at work and I’m hoping he’ll call and tell me he’s finished. I keep peeking over my iPad, stomach a little knotted, hoping I’ll see his truck come down the street and pull in front of our house. I’m hoping he’ll come home to me. And, when I see him, I’ll still blush at my excitement. He’ll see our past and my hope for our future in my eyes. I’ll see the same in his. It’s still warm and welcomed. It’s safe and sound. It’s an infinite kind of hope – it’s love.