Futon
.
Sometimes I have a hard time linking what I feel with every step I take in a day, tripping with moments in which you are, like taking care of a child. I guess that, despite how much I love you, to want to sink your head in a basin full of water until you start bating your arms in search of air, is a logic reaction. I don't do it, and I'd never do it. Albeit of course, there is also a reason to consider that prevents me from reacting, that is this deep and huge love I feel for you, and that only allows me to look in your eyes through two slits which seek to fulminate you: Just in case, just for if you notice it.
However, there you are, smiling as you walk with the clothes I've just washed at the river, doing me a favor and tending them under the Sun... while dragging through the ground the corner of the futon's cover, because in your eagerness of doing that soon, you've put everything while ill-disposed and fast so that I could rest. Tell me, how can I rest like this?
I felt the need to shout; I think I did. However, you interpreted my uncertainty your way and asked me to stay calm, that it will be done in a moment. In that instant, I gave in, I just can't compete with your energy: I hope it serves you to go down the river again to wash that cover again.
I sit at the border of our cabin's entrance; yes, the same you build in twenty-eight days. I hold my chin in my hand as I watch the show. I guess you'll notice the situation you are in, look at me, rise that pair of eyebrows of yours and that gesture will send me an "Oops", from you.
I sigh.
You start tending the clothes, the towels, that hitoe you stained with ashes from the hearth yesterday, and that soon after you tried to mend with water. It doesn't matter how many times I tell you that only makes it worse, because you always do it again. Then, you arrive at the futon, you leave it on the wood held by two supports, slap your hands together and even take a few steps back to admire your work proudly. Then, you look at me and smile.
What I said.
As you come closer, I see how your smile widens. When you are right in front of me, you bend and tilt your head slightly to the side.
"Who has earnt a kiss?" You ask, with that playful tone I already know.
I extend my hand and pinch your backside. You whine.
"What was that for?" The playful tone leaves space for perplexity.
"The futon's cover." I point. You look at it.
"That? Bah, we wait until it dries then we shake it a bit.
"Seriously?" I threaten to pinch you again, now from the front.
Your eyes open wide and your hands quickly protect that place. I can't help releasing a laugh.
I can't but arrive at the conclusion that love is a series of many things which are not always perfect, and that become unique because that same love heals them.
This day will be remembered as: The day of the futon.
Without cover.
.
Kisses
Anyara
This text is possible thanks to the translation of: Dezart
