Stick[y tags] and Stones...

When he came to stay in the tower, I still had sticky tags on most of my cookware. I knew where one pot, a skillet, and the kettle were kept and beyond that, I didn’t really have a clue. My life was transient, happily led out of a suitcase and trunks and boxes. The rest of it, the part that keeps a person anchored, I couldn’t really comprehend… or maybe I didn’t want to comprehend it.

But he came, and he stayed, and probably against a bit of both of our wills, against all odds, and just because it was meant to be… a life was built… together.

It was never easy, but then neither of us would know what to do with easy. Easy is for poshies who’ve never known what hard work and knocks and loss are about.

Instead, we’ve butted up against each other, time and again, eventually working to smooth off some of the ragged edges like stones that get tumbled by the sea and finally learn to fit into each other. In fitting together that way, the rough edges get left to the outside. You’re bound together with some sort of protective shell that only the two of you can really understand and the fragile, smooth inside stays safe.

That’s what I was thinking about when I noticed him picking his way over cold, damp stones, carefully reaching the outcrop of rocks where I always sit. He stood and looked out across the sea, then slid into his familiar position behind me, waiting for me to lean back and invite his warm embrace. Once we were settled together, I let out a sigh of relief.

“How’s the headache?” He whispered.

His lips were warm against my temple and I laughed hoarsely, half-wondering if I’d have a voice to answer his question with.

We’d had quite the ‘do’ the night before. We were home, it was his birthday and I was going to make damn sure he, and everyone else we know, realised how much I love him.

We might’ve overdone it just a bit.

Instead of talking I just leaned back a little more, fitted a little more perfectly into his arms and let myself realise what it is to be smoothed out in the right way and firmly anchored.

We sat, happy and together in our quiet, watching the tumble and rush of the sea. Again I thought about the stones and the hard work that gets done beneath the foamy, glittering surface.

After a long while I managed a whisper.

“Thanks for being born, Gavin.” I felt his smile and as an afterthought I added, “And thanks for knowing what to do with sticky tags…”