Savor It

by Tarah DeWitt

“Something tells me I couldn’t have you pegged in a decade, let alone a few days, Sage. But even I can tell that you’re vast.”

“I promise I’ll make it quick,” she says. And because my pride is still a little wounded, I decide to do an experiment. “What if I don’t like it quick, Sage?” I ask, rapt on her reaction. “What if I prefer to savor things. Want it good and slow and drawn out?”

“Whenever you think too little of the world, try to remember that somewhere, something, or someone is always waiting to be known.”

“Sagebyrd,” he says, like bluebird or blackbird or like I’m some exotic, rare species he’s just discovered and named. Just like that, it’s officially the only nickname I’ve ever loved.

People can’t follow your rules if you don’t make them clear. This applies in all your relationships: parenting, love, and friendships alike. If you don’t tell people what is and isn’t okay with you, they have no way of knowing.

“Your laugh is … I don’t know what it is, Sage, but your laugh…” I feel the muscles in his back bunch beneath my hands, the ones in his stomach contracting and relaxing against mine. “I think your laugh could maybe defibrillate me.”

Love is this. Love is breathing. A sweet, deep, aching relief. And it’s somehow even more disorienting.

I tell myself to put on a brave face for everyone. Remind myself that courage is a muscle and that maybe if I use it this will get easier.

“It’s been a privilege to fall in love with you, Sage,” I tell her helplessly. Her expression shatters, and I kiss the tears from her cheeks before I have to wrench myself away.

Life’s short. Go to the library. Live a million different stories and see a million different places in one. You might not have control over some things, but you can always foster your imagination.

Time will always give the best advice. Take care of your moments and the years will follow suit.