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She rarely showers now, in fear it will set her back. I have some good ideas on how to create new memories when water splashes on her: me, Poppy, and the shower. I’m just waiting for the green light—for her to make the first move and tell me she’s ready to be physical again.
I’ll wait forever if I have to.
***
“I got you something, Pumpkin,” I say softly as I push open the door to my bedroom. She’s nestled among the cushions, tucked into bed with a book propped open in her lap. At the sound of my voice, her gaze lifts, her eyes—those deep, hazel wells that have seen too much darkness—meeting mine. There’s a flicker, a subtle brightening that hasn't been there for weeks. It’s as if each day, bit by bit, we’re chiseling away at the cold marble of her grief and finding the warm, vibrant woman she used to be underneath.
I sit next to her, the mattress dipping under my weight, shifting her slightly closer to me. I place the box on her lap.
“What’s this?” she asks, her voice tinged with curiosity.
“Open it,” I reply, my stomach tightening with nerves. I hope this doesn’t backfire. I ran it by Dr. Peterson, who advised me to be prepared for any reaction.
Poppy's small hands delicately peel back the wrapping paper, the sound soft and crisp in the quiet room. Then, she gently lifts the lid of the cardboard box. With careful fingers, she grasps the item inside and coaxes it free with a tender wiggle. I watch intently, each whisper of the tissue paper as it parts ways with the gift, causing my stomach to twist into tighter and tighter knots.
Please, big man, upstairs, don't let this backfire on me.
Finally, it’s free from all the protective wrapping.“What is this?” Poppy's voice tightens as she reaches out, gently stroking the red poinsettia flowers painted around the edge of the platter.
“You…” I start, swallowing hard,“You mentioned the day we went to your parent's house that your mom had a Christmas platter. It had poinsettias on it. I know it was destroyed in the fire. But, I, um, I wanted to give you something new along with the memory of something old. I know it’s not the platter your mom used during Christmas, but I thought maybe one day we could use it when we make Christmas dinner together.”
Did I say that too fast? My heart races like it’s trying to beat out of my chest.
She’s silent.
Is that good, or is she planning on smashing it over my head?
Her fingers trace the entire edge of the platter.“This is very thoughtful,” she whispers.
What does that translation mean? Is that‘I'm going to kill you’or‘cry in your arms’?
She exhales heavily.“Thank you.”
Okay, that’s good.
She clears her throat and blinks rapidly, her voice lightening.“However, who will do the cooking?” she states, her voice trying to sound firm, but I hear the emotions clogging it.
Yes!I want to fist-bump the air. She’s making a joke.
“Because, as you know, my culinary skills are limited. So, are you planning to cook Christmas dinner for our kids?”
I freeze, and so does she, letting the words hang in the air.
Kids.
A promise of a bright future.
“I’ll do everything,” I reply quickly.
She closes her eyes.“I want what we talked about, Jules, if you still do.”
Gently, I take the platter and set it on the side table.“I want it all, Pumpkin.”
“You still want to marry me?”
I pull her into my lap.
Shit! Did I just trigger her?
