It has been our Saturday morning routine- we would open our eyes, not to get out of bed, but have our morning talk. In a marriage that’s so young, as the years add up, we won’t run out of stories to tell.
That particular morning, I turned to him, finally admitting in a whisper, “I stopped dreaming.”
My past has gifted me moments of pain and sacrifice... hurt after hurt... even before I healed. So I would close my eyes each night, not to go to sleep... but to paint dreams. They were vivid... clear. Pixel by pixel, I created my tomorrow to be better.
In the daytime, I’d count the hours, anticipating every nightfall. So I could again escape to a happier place I’d sketch in my canvas.
Until the night I stopped dreaming.
Has my well of dreams gone dry?
That morning, it occured to me...
The night I stopped dreaming, was the night we started thanking.
With him, the daybreak had come.