Afternoons

E is sleeping on my futon. He rolled over twenty minutes ago, gave me a little grin as he tucked a pillow between the crook of his plaid covered a rim and his shaggy dark hair. He smiled teasingly and then closed his eyes. A moment later, he was asleep. I wish I could fall asleep like that.

I can smell chicken in the crockpot, and I’m counting down the minutes before I stick it in the oven and roast it so the skin turns brown and crisp. We have Mormon missionaries coming for dinner and I cook so rarely for others that I want things to be perfect. I look around at my apartment as I type that and sigh. This wreck is not going to be perfect.I had chest pains a few minutes ago. Nothing severe. But sharp enough that it forced me to break from my paper which is due tomorrow morning in my first class. I looked at the leaves outside, the orange, red, limey yellow and hunter green that stand defiant of waning daylight and cold night winds. I thought, what if the chest pains meant something? Something more than anxiety? I glanced at E, still sleeping on the futon, despite the sound of lumbering trucks on our busy street and the folks that take a four-thirty smoking venture every day below my window.

I thought, there are more important things than papers and grades and fear. We’re hoping for the future, him and I. We talk about the UK, about NT Wright and Michael Bird. We use acronyms like PhD, MATh and MB. But there are still more important things than dreams and futures and hopes I’m never quite sure will come to pass.

There is here.

And there is now.

And that is what’s most important.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s