A year ago, I'd have laughed off the notion. Six months ago, I'd have smiled tight enough to hold the tears back until you left the room, mourning the very possibility. Four months ago I'd have called the idea naive. Even just two months ago as we were packing boxes, papers all signed and preparations made, I don't think I really believed.
It's been a month, and now I believe.
Because we are here, making a home from seven hundred square feet carved into the side of a hill, gin and rye and rain on the porch while we break from unpacking and marvel at our lives unfolded and mingling across the living room floor. Because we are here, back-to-back in a galley kitchen, driving knives through piles of vegetables and dialing the stovetop back to simmer. Because we are here, every night and every morning, wrapped around one another.
And on Sundays, as long as there are eggs and flour and milk and love, we make pancakes.