As the babies were falling into sleep at an hour so much later than we wanted, we had listened to the rising wind, the heavy drops weeping out of the South Carolina sky, gushing tears, fresh-washing air.
I whispered something to share I've dared only once by myself, almost backed out when I heard guttural sky-rumbling, saw the sky light - but he held me to it, took my hand, gave me courage.
We left the little ones sleeping and slipped into the rain and the night together, giggling like kids, standing cold and silly in the driveway, embracing wet and alone.
I thought, standing beneath the streetlight, "this only happens in the movies; we're not so romantic as this." and then he kissed me and I kissed him and we forgot we were parents and forgot we were married and remembered how we love.
Then came the lighter, the soft, the peace that comes from being known, from being opened, from invitation that lowers walls and opens doors and frees a heart. I breathed in the almost-new scent of one-love that I am learning so slowly, the gentle daring that propelled us outside, where he held me and helped me stay because I'd asked, because he knew I wanted to stay, in spite of my practical fears.
So I walked quieter and set my practical fears aside and worked my fingers and my imagination yesterday in the sun that filled the house, the lighter heart I owned. In spite of the kids, I gathered and I pinned and worked and reworked and hung a dream above our bed that I've loved since we were engaged.
And then I took a picture, which is a favorite picture now, because of the night, because of the rain, because of the light and the vulnerable and the questions - asked and unasked - and their unspeakable answers, because of the dream and the coming true.
It was raining. So now we have falling tulle, and remembery.
I've shared this post with Claire for her HCB Photoplay prompt: share a photograph that reflects a life lesson you’ve learned.
(Image © Informal Moments Photography)