The Cabin Wait

I parked—

“Understatement” faded.

Book in hand—

I sat by the river, rippling green

Sun dipped below the horizon.

Shadows chased light

along the mountain wall.

Quinn

knows me

better than I trust myself 

in a streakless mirror.

She left me stranded

at an outdoor altar—courage fallen,

remorse at my feet.

Her father's hand,

her tears a faucet.

No bitter words to lob.

She couldn't fix me.

Said I needed therapy—

depression was unkind.

Freedom from the numbness, 

the sting in Sertraline.

I started going,

worked through insecurity.

Not overnight,

but every night

I was thankful for a new day,

and for the day she arrived.

After she left,

I had nothing to say.

She wasn’t ready.

She left. I stayed.

Family and friends faded to their cars.

I paid the pastor to baptize me,

wearing the shame of her cold feet.

Quinn will return—

we belonged together.

I didn’t want excuses 

that would blame me.

Two years later,

my stomach growled for her touch.

Thirsty for words,

I called—

her voicemail shot arrows 

in a parking lot 

of the lodge we’d paid for.

She found me,

I’d moved into a cabin.

She wasn’t the one who needed to wait;

"I did," she said. 

I did the work, 

not for her,

for me.

When I found my words,

I invited her in.

My tears found home,

glistened on her cheeks.

"I love you," she said,

brushing her hand on my face.

I was waiting for more,

but I love you was more than enough.

We got to know each other again,

falling in love—

immaturity gone

with a west coast breeze.

A year later,

we married 

at a quiet church service.

She knows me—

better than I know myself.

By Andy Cooper

From: United States

X: AC0040