Orb: A poem to my husband’s heart

Every night, at three a.m., my heart wakes meand starts calling for your heart.

You areright herebeside mebut I do not want to wake youbecauseyou work late and I rise early, becauseyou can’t sleep and I can, becauseyou like the window closed and I like it open,blowing across my skin.

Still, tonight,I wanted youto know that here,in the middle of this night,I loved youin a way that I have neverlet myself love you,or love anyone,before.Maybe it was becausethe day before, I had learned about a poetwho woke in the middle of the night and found that his young wife had died beside him.She was there but no longer there.Beside him but already gone.Maybe it was becausewhen I read it,I gasped in pain -Maybe it was because ofthe white hotmoment of separation,which everyone who has ever loved anyone knowsand which is always here and not here.Knowing that this- you beside me me beside you -will one day end,this momentand the everywhereof you becomes soindescribably,unspeakablyprecious.the neatly made bed, becauseyou are the one who makes it,the towel on the floor, andthe almond butter left out on the counter with the spoon upside down in the jar because- and I will never understand this about you -you eat it from the handle end,as opposed to the bowl of the spoon.You know the neighbors - and I don't, not really - becauseyou walkup and down the block,and talk to people.And hereyou arein this chair in the corner beneath the fixture you installed so we could readthese books that you fill with marginalia,vivid with exclamation points and underlines ingreen, red and blue.

And hereyou arein this pillow you like better than the other one,in this shirt hanging crooked on this hook by the door.And your hairwhich sorely needs a trim,And your smilewhen you see me in the kitchen.And this air between us,swirling with light- and this lung, drawing it intoward this heartwhich wakes me up, at 3:00 am, callingfor your heart.

TWO

When our son was five, he began to disappear. Oh, he was RIGHT HERE - but he would sometimes, dissolve into the television. I would stand in the doorway and call to him but he wouldn't look up.As if he couldn't hear me. As if some subtle part of him had lifted from his small body and left the room, and had fallen, head first, into the blue-glowing screen."Where does he go?" I asked a wise man."He goes in," the wise man said. "He goes looking for the ones that he sees on the screen. He is lonely for them. His heart is hunting for someone to meet him."

THREEIt was like that with youand me- at first.My heart would wake up.Lonelyhunting for someone,for you.FOURLast night, I fell asleep on the sofaand I dreamed of Michael Landon.(You know how he was, so heart-full, so loving -and also, I often dream of Michaels.)I can't remember the dream -only what happened as it ended:I woke and opened my eyes and there,floating before me,I found a softly glowing ball of light.Oh, I know this sounds fantastical - and it was- only it wasn't at the time. I was toocaptivatedby its beauty,by the light,golden bronze, translucent- a lantern,flickeringin the middle of the darkened room.And there may have been a fairy at its center.And maybe not.And when I held out my hand -and I felt its featherweight landing on my palm -I knew...something I hadn't known before.I went back to sleep andthe next day, I remembered this;how it bounced on my palm like a bubble;how it didn’t startle or frighten me;how it was the next logical stepin the progression of things.A part of something opening to me,something for which my heart has been hunting:a permanence,a presence.a lantern,illuminating the roomof the lonely room of my life -as I open, finally to love.