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It's been a hard day. Your anxiety's been acting up, making you restless and antsy, leaving you in a low mood. Sam could tell, always could.
"Hey baby. You okay?" he checks in, a little frown on his face.
You shake your head and sigh. "Not really. I feel anxious. It's been a rough day," you say, face muscles contracted, all weary and exhausted.
He nods, steady as always. "I understand that. What do you need? What can I do?" his voice is soft and smooth and he stays where he is, not wanting to overstep.
"Can you hold me, maybe? And we could talk," you suggest, sheepish. Your cheeks would turn a little pink in shame if you weren't so pale and if this wasn't sweet Sam.
He nods, the corners of his mouth tilting up matching his loving stare. He goes over to the cozy little literary corner in your apartment, settles on the comfy rounded sofa surrounded by mismatched wooden bookshelves, yours and Sam's favorite little resting spot. He opens his arms and gestures you over, getting you to sit sideways on his lap, resting your weary head on his shoulder.
"There we go. You're okay, you're safe," he coos, rough fingers gently trailing up and down the skin of your arm. "You're so loved." His voice is so warm, comforting like a hug, so sure too as he presses kisses to your temple
He murmurs sweet nothings, words soothing and kind, holding you against his warm chest, running his long fingers through the strands of your hair, calm and careful.
"It was just too much today,” you say.
"That's okay," he immediately reassures, hand moving up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your cheek and contracted jaw. "What do you need? Wanna nap? Want a good cry?"
You nod.
"Then do that. I'm here. Let it out," he says, voice deep and warm, holding you close, rocking you slightly.
"I don't know what to do anymore, Sam" you cry, the tears falling, a knot on your stomach.
"That's okay, baby. So so so okay. You've been doing so well and what you're doing is already enough. You just have to keep doing what you're doin'. Moving on, opening up, allowing space for the light to get in. That's all. And you've been doing that so well lately. 'M so proud." He soothes, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.
"Thank you. I- I'm so lost. It's so confusing," you stammer.
"It is. But it's confusing for everyone. Don't worry, you'll find your footing. I know you will. In your own time. Let it happen, let life take its course, it's gonna get better. It always does," he says, holding you close, breath steady, chest warm. You sniff.
"What if it doesn't?"
"It will. Always has. Don't worry, it’s okay. I'm gonna make you some chamomile tea, how 'bout that?"
"That sounds good," you nod.
Sam comes back a few minutes later with two steaming mugs, hand-painted from when you two took that little painting workshop. It’s familiar and helps your nerves settle a little. You take it gladly, thanking him, and sip. He pulls you close to his side again, shifting so your bodies are comfortably settled on the little sofa, grounding you in the present moment. The hot tea warms your insides.
His forest-hazel eyes scan the bookshelves that make the small personal library surrounding you and they focus on a very special, worn-out, well-loved edition he knows very well. It’s a poetry anthology. He’s not the biggest poetry guy but this one he does like because you’re fond of it. Mary Oliver’s Devotions. He thinks for a second, turns back to look at you.
He’s seen time and time again how you turn to it in moments of difficulty and how important of a place it holds to you. He also knows how much you love it when he reads to you, how much it soothes you. So it’s only natural for him to reach and grab it.
“How about we read some of this, hm? How’s that sound?” he asks quietly, eyes sparkling with love. You nod quickly, comforted by the thought of reading your comfort author’s work to slow down. He lays you down on his chest and opens the book, going for the dog-eared pages first, your certified favorites.
“You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting— over and over announcing your place in the family of things,” he recites.
His voice is warm and rich as the words to Wild Geese fall out of his lips. You allow the sound - and the language - to steady you, ground you in the moment.
He reads a couple more before you start taking turns. It’s been a rough day but this, slowing down with Sam in your favorite corner, reading soft poetry to each other, is dreamy and oh so wonderful. You read your favorites, then open on random pages and read those, consulting it and taking the advice as if listening to an oracle spill good omens.
And you knew at that moment this is what you were made for. Life’s difficulties, short-comings and overwhelmingly bad days could always amount to this. To quiet moments sipping tea on your favorite mug with your favorite person by your side, listening to the rain, talking, giggling and being light. So light you could float. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Being like the wild geese? You think so.
“Oh my God, this one is so good,” you say, smiling like a fool at the twelfth poem, mood highly improved.
When Sam whispers a soft ‘I love you” in your ear and kisses your temple as the words to the poem fall from your lips, you're reminded you might have more answers than you ever thought you did and things might just work out. As long as this is what you’re coming home to you’re completely safe. “I love you too.”