I want to do crossword puzzles with you. I want the mundane and the simple, the chance to watch you nibble the eraser of your pencil (who uses those anymore these days? you do) and to get you fresh tea when yours has gone cold because your nose is so close to the page that you’ve smudged the tip with gray lead dust and you’ve forgotten the world outside of those tiny little blank and black boxes.
Crossword puzzles, it’s a start. Then maybe a jigsaw puzzle.
Why jigsaws? Oh, that’s easy– because unlike the crossword puzzles in which you’ll ask for my help but refuse my answers, here we’ll tussle over pieces and elbow each other in the ribs and laugh over our discordant creations that look less like the cover the box and more like what happens when children go bad, except we’re not children and we’re not bad, we’re good, so very good, for and with each other, and once we finally finish it’s always seconds, only seconds, to one of us deliberately breaking it to pieces again because the goal was not to the finish, the fun was in the having.
Jigsaw puzzles are our play and we’re finally old enough to play. Then I’ll want to play our other games.
I’ll want to play that game where the game pieces are swept aside, the pencils rolled underneath the sofa, and it’s knees and hands and elbows on wooden floors and plush carpet.
I’ll want to play that game where there are dropped dishes and soapy suds because we’ve escaped to soft places with soft whispers and hurried breaths.
I’ll want to play that game where the rapid swish of discarded clothing meets the galloping pace of fired blood and tandem hearts.
I love those games; I love all of our games, and there is no one else I need to play them with other than you.