And, I can not write about Iowa. I can not write about the hotel room's bed, or the sound of constant trains that covered my own calls of joy. I can not write about the first quick kiss or the length they became. I can not write about how it he looked when he slept or how his arms felt wrapped tight around me. I can not write about the gifts exchange or the looks. I can not write about the music. I can not write about how my breath left my body or exactly how often it did. I can not write about how so many words were heavy in my mouth and light once in the air. I can not write about how there was no need for food or liquor to get us through. I can not write about the laughter or the smiles and how my cheeks still feel that upward turn of my lips. I can not write about the words from books we read out loud or the pictures passed between of us of our live before 'us.' I can not write about the sound of his beating heart that rang through my dreams, or the tears the fell from my eyes as I fell. I can not write about the regret of leaving the warm bed and going out into the daylight after being locked safely between four walls that for two days became our own.
I can not write about a strange diner off the side of the highway with the mural of farm animals and the waitress who took orders on some hand held gadget instead of paper and pen. I can not write about my pancakes or his sunny side up eggs as finally our stomachs demanded attention. I can not write about the way he looked and looked at me. I can not write about Osceola, because I can not even pronounce it correctly. I can not write about the grayness or how the sun saved us. I can not write about walking the whole small town within a day, hand in hand. I can not write about walking up a steep hill facing west and how the perfect spot to watch the sunset appeared at just the right moment, as sent from God.
I can not write about how miraculous and how blessed...because to do so would perhaps cheapen the amazement of events. Would perhaps give to much away that I want to hold dear and close.
I can write about driving away and feeling I was dreaming and needed to wake up, stopping at a gas station on the edge of Iowa for a piece of flat pizza, because my hunger returned with a force. I can write about the tears the came as I drove through Kansas City while listening to a mix CD given to me and hearing the power behind the music. I can write about being distraught and lost within my own state and fearing I would never manage to find my way home and realizing that home can mean so many different things. I can write about how I waited up for his call even though I am so tried and my eyes are so dry. I can write about how now even though I am heavy with fatigue I can not in fact sleep. I can write about how I know that these things are real and did happen. I can write about how I can still feel this man as my body aches, and this fact alone is what reminds me now as I write this that I am alive. I am not dreaming. I can write that even though there are almost 600 miles between us I do not feel alone, but together. I can write about how love makes even the impossible things seems possible.
I can write that suddenly I have awoken from my slumber.
