This was the first Light I went out and found with her. This was a new place for her—and new place for me—with her.
As the Light poured onto the tree line, all I could think about is asking if I could make her photograph—so I did. She walked over, grudgingly, but smiled the whole time. Her words didn't reflect her feelings. She was filled with joy, I could see it. As painful as she made it seem, I captured My Light standing in the light.
Well, we captured that light. Together.
This week was filled with moments like this one and a lot fewer moments of staring at a screen. We were together—talking—not staring at a piece of glass, illuminated, displaying pixels.
She doesn't like looking at screens, especially to talk, but I like that. I would much rather look at her while being next to her, of course.
She does like spending time together—talking, listening, laughing, staring, thinking, walking, playing. All moments filled with joy and a consistent calmness that I've never seen before.
When the light went down, so did our thoughts and attitude on the fact that the day was almost over. We weren't too happy about that. We stayed up too late in her driveway sitting, laughing and listening to songs so unfamiliar to her. It was filled with so many subtle glances and pauses that it was almost better than when the light was still there. It came back to the calmness I spoke about before. It's always there—even in the hyper or sleepy states she finds herself in throughout the day. It's never fleeting—always consistent no matter what. I can't get enough of it—it's a drug. A drug that's so beneficial to me, because that same calmness overflows into me, unlike anything I've ever felt before.
There isn't a doubt in my mind that together we will capture so much more Light in our future, for a very long time. I know it. I feel it. I am so sure of it.