Lowest
There was one day when I was out working in the yard
cutting bamboo, a forest that had overtaken the entirety
of the back edge of the property, and I had spent weeks
hacking through roots with a pick axe, hour after hour,
week after week, through boiling summer heat, trying
to resurrect the dilapidated land I had bought to become
our home, working myself into daily exhaustion—and
she came out, stepping onto the grass, walking down to
where I was, but not so far as to tread in the dirt, and as
I saw her, my heart fluttered for a moment as it always
did every time I saw her—the whole idea that there was
this one person in the world who wanted me, who loved
me no matter the circumstance, unconditionally, and so
I dropped my tool, went up to greet her, and as she saw
me, her face betrayed a subtle horror at my condition,
and then I realized how filthy I was, dripping in sweat,
my oversized t-shirt matted with filth and mud, boots
caked in dirt, hands blackened, face begrimed, and the
look in her eyes—a tinge of disgust, embarrassment at
my appearance, and no attempt at a hug let alone a kiss,
and for a moment I felt bewildered and self conscious.
But I also remember the time years before when she
was in the hospital after surgery, her face pale, her hair
unwashed and matted to the pillow, zero makeup, brow
sweaty and clammy, black circles under her eyes, lips
chapped, saliva caked in the corners of her mouth, and
an angry reddened scar across her neck that would leave
its mark forever, and in that moment when she looked
her worst as I held her flaccid hand and she could barely
turn her head, in that moment, I never loved her more.
