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Sometimes, lying in bed next to my wife and her damnable cat, I wonder what I did to deserve this.
Her curly hair is on my pillow as much as her own, her leg tossed over both of mine.
Like every night, I think about the history between us, a history of mockery, cruelty, apologies, and forgiveness.
I think of the reactions of her friends when they found out I was the ‘secret boyfriend’.
I think of our wedding, of the magical bonds, the first day I felt truly redeemed.
I remember the look on her face when we couldn’t bring back her parent’s memories.
I pray that the child inside her is more of her than of me.
Not because I hate myself, but because girls like her need to exist.
The war and the years after were cruel, terrifying, cold, and vicious.
Life can burn you out, leaving the world tired and bleak.
Each day just another grey step closer to the grave.
But sometimes people can bring back the vibrant color.
Their passion can force itself into your life.
It turns cacophonous sound back into music.
I always say not much matters.
Nobody likes to hear that.
Well, except for her.
It clarifies things.
What matters?
Love.