I wish that for one day you could know what it feels like to be loved by you.
Your love is an invitation to be heard and seen.
I think being loved is being known.
Do you remember when we went for that walk, ripping leaves off low hanging tree branches as we spoke, quietly tearing them apart, and then letting them fall?
Do you remember when we sat in the back of the bus, vibrating as the gravel moved underneath our seventeen-year-old legs, and asked each other if we knew what love was?
Do you remember when you learned how to play that Fleetwood Mac song I love on your guitar so we could sit underneath the pines in your yard and sing it together after we made pancakes for dinner?
Being with you is home. Our conversation is easy and simaltaniously convicting. The silence between us is sweet, thick, and lyrical. Thank you for seeking to hear and to see me-to know me.
Happy twentieth birthday, Lydi. Your love is treasured.