future talk

I wish I didn't dream of making a whole life with you. That when I start looking to the future, I begin to move because I want to make that life possible with you. That I wanted to do better at life to have everything we could ever want.

We would have lived in a small apartment at first. We'll feel like we're playing house: cooking for each other, maybe washing each other's clothes, or cleaning on a Sunday afternoon. I keep imagining our bed, unmade, while we play hooky on a Monday morning. We'll wake up early but end up late because getting out of bed isn't an appealing option when we can lie together for a bit longer. We would've gotten a dog, if the landlord allowed it. Maybe a pug or a bulldog. We'd take our dog on walks and play catch. And we'll be together for every holiday imaginable. I would have loved that life.

And maybe, eventually, when we have saved enough, one of us will propose to the other. I would buy you an engagement ring and surprise you with all your favorite food. And I would ask you to marry me. I know you'd say no because you'd like to be the one to ask. But I'd insist on you wearing the ring anyway. Because it doesn't matter to me who will do the asking. What matters is that the answer is yes. We'll plan a small affair, inviting only a small group of friends and family. We'd invite more people at the after party. Or maybe we wouldn't have gotten married at all, if that's what we want. We'll just go on a honeymoon trip: maybe on a beach somewhere outside the city or out of the country (yes, I'll finally have a passport to go to all the places we want to see). And then we'll find ourselves our perfect home.

And that when I close my eyes, and start to imagine a home: what I see is you, tending to our first child. I know I kept saying that I'd like my eldest to be a boy. But when I imagine you with a child, I see you with a little girl. I see you looking at her for the first time like she was magic. We'll have sleepless nights and quiet nights with her. We'll begin to own traditions: for birthdays, Christmases, New Years. When she is two or three, I imagine you teaching her how to tie her shoelaces. I see you holding her hand as we walk our dogs in a park. On her first day at school, we'll both be taking leaves. We'll drive her to school. We'll be holding her hands as we walk in the grounds. We're more nervous than she is. She will be excited by the playground and the possibility of having new playmates. We'll be crossing our fingers that she has a good day. And we'll wait at home until her dismissal. And we'd pick her up, nervously waiting outside on the school swings. And we'd be rewarded with her happy smile and her stories of how her first day went. Maybe we'll go for ice cream somewhere. And then make dinner at home.

Maybe we'll have two more kids after her. Or more. All I know is the prospect of growing old seemed much more colorful and alive when I'll live that long life with you. Now you tell me, how do I say goodbye to all of that?