There is joy in little things
He finds himself grateful for the little things. Like waking to find her body pressed tight against his in the morning. Her shoulder is bare and warm, inviting his kiss. A soft kiss for soft skin. A little thing to treasure.
It is a little thing too, the way the light hits her as she sits stirring her tea in the morning. Always two spoons of sugar, just a dash of milk. The spoon makes a slow figure eight in the steaming cup and the faint ceramic hum has become a part of his morning. She smiles at him before she takes a sip.
There is peace in a quiet home life. It is one of the little things he has learned. He learned for her sake and found joy in it. The simple act of slicing bread has its own gentle rhythm. He almost misses a beat when she presses her cheek against his back. He takes the moment to enjoy it.
This day is theirs alone. This is a little thing he had never thought to do before, when she was not his. In the face of that great thing, that she is his and he is hers, this day seems so small. But it is their day and he is grateful. Carrying a basket is a small price for this.
He had never before considered what joy there was in little things. She had always known. Now she shows him and he is thankful. The grass brushes against his legs. The living ground is soft beneath him. His feet sink into the earth but when she takes him by the hand, his heart soars. Such a little thing it is, to touch her like this.
She leads him and he lets her. She smiles at him as they walk and he returns it. He knows where she will take him. It is their little ritual for this day that is theirs. The soft breeze rustles her soft skirt around her legs. Such a slight movement.
She leads him to the water and stands so still beside it. A little moment of doe-like grace. Sunlight filters through the leaves overhead. Silver light ripples over her face and he is breathless from the sight. So lovely.
She sits without care for her light, flowing dress and he sits beside her. She watches the light rippling on the water. She watches the birds swimming along the gentle current. He watches her. She tilts her head slightly as she stares. He finds his eye drawn to the pale neck. She glances sideways. He is caught. She raises an eyebrow at him quietly. The little tease.
She shakes her head a little, smiling. He leans in closer and she accepts his embrace. Such a wonderful thing. He presses another little kiss against that bare shoulder. She serenely sighs.
She grows hungry so he feeds her, giving her little bites directly from his fingers. She feeds him in turn and brushes the crumbs off for the birds.
The light takes on a deep hint of rose. The grass around them takes up the warm color. This is a special moment, when the world is poised on the brink of something deeper. It is gone too quickly. It is such a little space of time, so precious.
He rises and helps her to her feet. They return home under a canopy of little twinkling lights. The peace and joy from this little walk amaze him. So much to be gained from something so simple. There is joy in little things. If only he had known before.
It is a little thing, the way she toes her shoes off at the door. Still, it draws his eye. Her legs are grass-stained and her light dress is too. It is only a small matter to her and she easily slides the thin straps off her shoulders. It is a little thing to cause such fascination, the way the thin fabric caresses every curve as it slides down. The dress flutters gracefully to the floor and he cannot wait anymore.
It is too much for him to bear sometimes, this great gift she gives him. It swallows him whole. This trust, this love. Too much. Too great. This is a fearsome, wonderful thing, not the quiet peace of small moments. This thing is wild and awesome. It consumes him. He loves the depths from which it comes, the little moments that make this great thing what it is. She is drowned within this too and becomes even more beautiful for it.
His breath returns. He is himself again and she is herself, but they are slower, worn. Happy. He can be grateful for little things again. There is one slender hand that rests on his cheek. Another brushes limply over his hair. So gentle.
He bends to kiss the faint salt from her body and pauses, grateful that where there should be a harsh scar, a reminder of his sin, there is only smooth skin. A little thing to her. A great miracle to him.
Her voice comes to him softly. She calls him her love. She bids him rest. He wraps his arms around her and holds her through the night. It is a simple, little thing, to hold the one he loves. That he loves and is loved in return is no little thing at all.