One week.

One week is all I got with you. You said our interests were too far off but, you never even gave us a glimmer of hope. I don't even know what your voice sounds like, or the way your lips turn up when you smile. I have never seen the color of your eyes or heard the exuberant sound of your laugh. I don't know what it feels like to be standing next to you & feel your tall demeanor beside me. 

There is so much I was anticipating with you. The first time we met & finally locked eyes. Or the moment I introduced you to my family, or walked you through my hometown. Or the moment I grabbed your hand & took you to explored all the hidden, tucked away places, that remind me of my childhood. 

You walked in at the perfect time, you gave me the chance to open a new book, turn the page & start writing again. My journal flung open on July 4th & started writing. & as i wrote those words a smile appeared across my face without my knowledge. 

That one week gave me a glimpse of what it's like to lay on your mom's bed every night & seek advice from a women that 30 years ago was standing directly in my shoes. It's through her eyes that I see the stories flashing before her, the reminder that her daughter is now in the place she was in when my father walked into her world. 

& then there's a dad that stands tall at 6'4, & tells me stories of the beginning stages of his romance with my mom, he lets me into a world that at nineteen years old, I had yet to hear. He begs to hear my heart & desires to be let into this world of mine, I beg for the same thing. 

you spoke radiant truths to me tonight. Tonight sparked a new book for me...my books may be tiny, but they hold so much knowledge all wrapped up into a few short pages. Pages that one day I will pour open & share with my daughter. I'll express to her that life isn't always fair & sometimes you get broken, but that just gives you your own book to journal in. A book to reminisce on & scribble meaningless thoughts into. Your journal is your canvas, no matter how many times you paint over it, you'll always see a new story hidden beneath the ink.

Your written words are all that I'm able to carry with me, but the hopefulness of you is fading like fog in the early mornings.

Grace.