He's a tall man, my husband, but the future takes a few inches off here, adds a few there. He thinks only of cubicles and the crowded house he'll come home to.
My husband is full of color, really. He draws and he doodles, whistles and writes. He has a creator's heart. But the future hangs heavy on him and he gives into gray.
I wish that he'd look a little bit closer at the future. I wish he'd stretch back his arm, scoop the future off his back and swing him around. The future would twist and spin and fill with the air of hope--a drooping diaper bag turned to a rising parachute. Waving the future high above his head, he'd create an elevated path. Sunlight streaming, windows opening, we would both reach forward and upward.
We're both worried about the future--about gaping mouths and starving minds. But I want him to see the future that I see:
I want him to see the two-toothed grins and the messy trips in the family van.
I want him to see the photographs with friends at his novel signing, to feel the warm hugs.
I want him to see the tears of a co-worker who needed him for his strong words, for his message of optimism and faith.
Lately, my husband's been feeling the pressure of the future. I want him to feel peace.
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