Seen

I observe him as he stirs the big pot, murmuring to himself. The smell of sausages and red sauce wafts out into the air, making the whole house smell like home.

His voice carries through the air lightly, as though it does not dare disturb the space around him. He chooses his words carefully, taking his time to analyze if it’s actually important to say, to put out into the world. He moves in smooth and calculated motions, muscle memory helping him along.

In these moments, our words are only for the two of us. We are each other's safes, open to getting but oh so hesitant to give. We can talk about everything or nothing, a weight is lifted, just knowing that we have that option.The hands that are always wrapped around my throat, keeping me from sharing too much, release and I feel I can breathe again.

I sit on my stool and just listen, knowing that if I want to speak I will be heard. How many times have I watched him make this dinner? How many times have we talked about the same things in the same spots? The familiarity runs much deeper than just that, it comes from the smell of onions coming off of the shirt that he wears to work and the understanding in his eyes when he observes me back.