Quietly he steps foot into my yoga class and takes his place in the back of the room. I don’t know who he is, but I’m glad he’s here. He needs this, I can tell. He shows up every week. He is confident but also clearly self conscious. Each time he enters my space I feel safe. Relieved he hasn’t given up. I am rooting for him. I am always happy to see him. He is my friend. I lean in and the universe whispers… “yes. this is the one”.

He is a builder. He builds things. He can assemble and fix what is broken and this heart is a shattered puzzle. He doesn’t run though. He hasn’t given up. He stays and helps me rebuild. He works tirelessly to get things right. He is quick and efficient at the build, and his hands are agile. A sculptor sculpts. A painter paints. He has agreed to build.

Days pass. Weeks turn into months. Months turn into years. He is still holding my hand. Making my coffee. Rocking my babies. Helping me build. I can sometimes see the sadness creep in. From time to time life likes to taunt us and trick us into imagining what might have been. It’s hard to see the life you have crafted when you’re in it. It’s hard to admire the work you’ve completed when your eyes are too tired to open, but I can see it. I am forever grateful for this man. The builder took one look at my plan and called it good. Said “I do”, and he has. Accepted it for what it was. He is fighting with me through the flaws, the missteps, the hiccups…he believes in me.

As we lay next to one another hurting and aching in ways only we can understand, I breathe in deeply. I look beyond the surface. I reject any thoughts that the grass is greener. The grass is not greener. The soil is not richer. The water is not cleaner. This is my land. This is my piece of earth. He is my home. I will lovingly tend to this till the day I die. This is what matters.

I build here.