In my wildest dreams

Never could I have imagined
the last thirty years
before having experienced them for myself.
I would not have believed you
had you told me the story ahead of time.

When I look at photos of the unfinished,
one-room house, our first home
(our only home),
with an outhouse and outdoor shower,
I ask myself
what was I thinking?

I really wasn't.

I simply fell in love.
With a timber faller who came home
each day smelling of saw gas.
Who collected sawdust in his bellybutton.
Who built our home while we lived in it.
(That sounds kind of romantic,
but really, not so much.)
An artist with wood.

More than three decades ago
I fell in love with his beautiful daughters
who accompanied us on our first date
and came along for the honeymoon.
Who shared an unfinished loft,
memorizing the words on the Tyvek barrier,
climbing up a wooden ladder to their tight quarters
with few complaints.
Who welcomed me into this family
and then celebrated the arrival of two more sisters,
born under this very roof,
not long after, making the shared space
even smaller.
And making the family complete.

Of course there were bumps,
disagreements, growing pains, angry words
followed by long silences.
The dance of two imperfect humans
trying to share the same space.

But thirty years later
I listen to my sweetie whistling in the shop,
watch him playing the fiddle as if no one is watching,
feel his arms around me in the most perfect hug,
sit next to him in church sharing a faith
that looks unique to each of us,
laughing together over silly everyday things
and I am grateful.

Never in my wildest dreams
could I have imagined.