Sole Mate Worn

I can hear you stirring in the bedroom, and I'm ready for you, as always.

I have prepared your breakfast and adjusted your chair. Your slippers wait by the door so that your feet might stay warm against our old hardwood floors.

I have said my prayers, that this might be the day you remember.

Remember our wedding and our children -- the ones who made it and the ones who did not.

I prayed you remember the trip to Niagara, yes, when our love was new and sweet as Summer's first honeysuckle. But also the fights and tears of loss, and the exquisite pain of angst suffered together.

It is not mine to know why you return as you do each morning to those days before our engagement, when our future was uncertain but our passion, bright ... hot ... red.

Would it be enough to carry us when the world turned hard and cold? Were you the one to walk with me all my days and hold my head when my neck grew weak? Could I be the one to hold yours?

I prayed that, when you awake today, you notice our shoes, all worn down, and remember it all. And that you will still love me, still want to hold me because of it all. Despite it all.

And if today is not the day? If you still don't remember?

I'll thank God for the chance at another day with you, and I'll happily drop to one creaky knee and ask you to do it all again.

For the first time.

Or the ten-thousandth.