You have spun me around the dance floor exactly three times. The first, your senior prom, just days after a softball cut a hole in the side of my face. The second, our wedding day, while a whole room watched and our pup waited for you in the truck. The third, just the other day. Sunday, in fact. And not a dance floor, but the concrete pad of our unfinished basement.
At some point in the afternoon, I had changed the music over to my playlist, filling the space with country and soul. Before you asked if we could change it, I asked if you would give me one more song. I moved in, and you took me. Into your arms. Rocked me gently. Soothed my soul.
Your arms reached around, met at the small of my back. Your lips rested with a whisper against my ear. Your hips swayed, and your feet kept time. Everything about this moment—the smell of your skin, the strength of your arms, the tension, the tease—etched into the contours of my mind. Lasting for days, lingering for longer.
In this small moment you said everything without a word: you love me. Even when I jump to judgment, when I crave control, when I dote on the details. Even when I say no. Even more when I say yes. You love me. You hold my hand and spin me around. You love me. You pull me close. You love me. Closer. You love me. Closer still. Like no one else ever could.
You rock me gently. You sooth my soul.
Happy Birthday, Micah! I love you, too!