Work in Progress Wednesday!

Rather than lament how very little progress I’ve made on this book of late, I want to celebrate a bit I’m pretty proud of.

This is a portion of Hannah’s Song that is very closely related to the portion of the Hebrew Bible that inspired the novel: 1 Samuel 1-2.

I drizzle some Astor Apiaries honey in her cup of chamomile tea and head downstairs.

“Hey, Gigi,” I say while still descending. A sad little “hey” echoes mine. “What’s up, buttercup?” I hand her the steaming mug of tea.

“Mmm, thank you,” she says as she smells but doesn't sip the tea. Then she puts it down on the nightstand beside the queen-sized bed and pulls the comforter up to her chin. “Thanks for cleaning the kitchen. I’m sure your mom appreciates it, too. You’re a good man, Everson,” she says. It sounds like she chokes up on the last sentence—her voice is thick like she’s holding back tears. I sit down on her side of the bed and slide my hand under the big, fluffy blankets to rest it on her leg.

“Grace, are you crying?” I am at a loss. “Gigi, why are you crying? Why didn’t you eat any dinner? Why are you so sad?”

She shakes her head and wipes her cheeks of the tears now streaming down them.

“Is this about my mother’s toast? I’m sorry she upset you, honey, but you know her heart is in the right place,” I offer.

She shakes her head again and reaches for the tea mug. I get there first and hand it to her again.

“Grace, I’m starting to truly worry about you. Please talk to me,” I plead. She sips her tea but still doesn't say anything.

“Look, I’m not going to beg you to talk to me about this. I think this—I don’t know what to call it—sadness? I think it started with our anniversary. I feel like you’re shutting down on me.” I am trying to use “I statements”, but I am running out of ways to phrase what her tortured heart is doing to me. “Listen, I love you. You are my wife. You are my person. I love your brain, your spirit. All of you, Grace.” I lean in to her. “I love your body and—I know you’re frustrated with it, my love—but you are perfect to me.”

She scoffs.

I slowly, slowly reach for her face. “Look at you,” I cup her jaw. “You’re exquisite.” I lean in to kiss her but hesitate as she ever so slightly pulls back. Focused completely on her (I’ll feel like crap about her recoiling at my touch later), I kiss her forehead. “We’ve spent most of our life together talking about this. I’m running out of things to say. I love our life together. I love being your partner, your man. We are enough for me. You and I, alone together, just the two of us, this is enough for me.”

She sniffs.

We sit in silence for a long time. I get up from the bed–-my plan is just to move closer to her–-and the look of panic on her face makes me a tiny bit hopeful. “I’m not going anywhere—I was just going to climb in with you, if that’s okay.”

“Yes, please,” my wife says softly.