tenerife sea + niam

If someone asked me to list my talents I wouldn’t dare say baking, and that’s not only because half the flour ended up scattering the floor like the snow that had fallen just shy of a month ago.

With each day Tweed and I had spent together, it came to my attention that though we had celebrated my birthday (we had even roped Cody into the simple festivities), we had never given a thought to hers, and even upon my asking she had shrugged it off without a second thought. And though it was relative in theory I had woken up with the grand idea that today would be the day we marked as hers, for the sun was bright and it was unusually warm for this time of year, and a day out of the normal stretch was exactly what fit her definition.

But my good intentions didn’t translate to the lopsided cake my mother helped me pull out of the oven.

After cutting out a piece bigger than Tweed herself and stealing one of the candles from the dinner table, I struck a match and set my impromptu plans in motion, making my way into the living room, cake in one hand and poorly wrapped present in the other.

I didn’t have much to give, though I considered wrapping one of Cody’s flannels just to see if he would notice it was gone. However, eventually I settled on the leather journal that still lay blank, not a single word to be found on any of its stained pages. It had managed to survive my quick fit of anger from the year before, when most of my time spent wisely had been ripped, shredded, and tossed away. This one had been a gift from Owen, probably on a Christmas or birthday or something of the sort.

But it seemed fitting for her, for she watched me intently every time I took to the page, and I wanted to give her the same.

She had taken to the couch, relaxed, half-asleep and un-expecting of any change of plans or surprises, and I do my best to lay it gently in her lap, taking a place on the edge of the table in front of her. I give her a moment to catch on and let the poorly planned surprise fade out before offering her the plate as well.

“I’ll spare you my singing voice.”

“Oh, Duncan— you didn’t have to. It’s—my birthday’s no big deal. But thank you.”

It’s panic turned to relief, for I half expected the first words to be followed by an undeniable displeasure, and though there are tears in the corners of her eyes I don’t believe it to be sorrow. But there’s still something about the sight of her crying that causes me to set the plate on the table beside me before joining her on the couch, pulling her almost onto my lap before wrapping the blanket around us both and watching the package in her hands.

She seemed even smaller now, pressed into my side like she was meant to be, and despite her words tinged in joy there still seemed to be a bite of uneasiness, and no matter where I looked in an attempt to read her the words remained jumbled. But she trusted me, and I trusted her, and it went without speaking that despite the circumstances that plagued us or the obstacles that fell in our path, we would be there for each other.

I would be here when she needed me because I knew she would do the same, and there wasn’t a single happenstance in the world that could change that.

“Of course your birthday’s a big deal. If it wasn’t why would I have baked such an amazing looking cake?”

But I couldn’t bear to say that it was important because otherwise she would not be here, and if that were the case I wouldn’t either, and both thoughts are too heavy a topic for my mind. Instead I gesture to the package resting in her lap, tapping the cord tied about it in a crude bow.

“It’s not much, but I think the wrapping is the best part of it all.” A smirk crosses my face at this, and I wonder if she knows that I can never match the gift she’s not only given me year to year, but hour to hour, or even minute to minute, for really she’s been a present all along, and she’s one I’ll never lose interest in or set aside.

She is the sunrise on mornings when everything is pure; she is light when clouds have covered the sky.

She is my heart, and I am hers.

We spoke words in the dark, pressed them against exposed skin so that they would sink straight to the heart, and though that time had passed I could still feel their mark upon her skin.

(“I love you, I love you, I love you—”)

They still remain, even now as we sit entangled with one another, and I can do nothing but smile, nothing but press my lips to her neck and shoulder while running hands down her back, absorbed in every single, minute detail that defined her.

She was; she is; she will be.

I was; I am; I will be.

She was anger and I was sorrow, two emotions mixed and stirred until they blurred together in an attempt to heal the wounds they had created. She is hope and I am comfort, caught in each other like there’s not another soul in the world that could bear our burdens, simply because there wasn’t. She will be something more, and I will be there to see it, to hold her hand and lift her to my shoulders, because we are nothing but the hope we’ve etched upon each other’s skin.

And I continue to reaffirm this, chuckling into her neck as she comments about the nature of the cake I managed not to completely burn.

With one glance up I realize her attention’s become focused on the gift in her lap, and as she begins to fidget with the bow I lay my head atop hers, watching her fingers twist until they abruptly pull the knot apart in one movement. “You’re really bad at wrapping things up. No wonder I’m pregnant.”

In one quick movement I’ve turned her around so that she’s facing me, and instinctively I lock my hands behind her at the small of her back, pressing my nose against hers, “Babe, your jokes have gotten worse since you got older.”

When her line of sight drops from my own, panic rises in my chest. My fingers lock, pressing against the small of her back where they sit, letting her warmth radiate into my palms. She is the sunrise burning against the background of her pale cheeks, her freckles the clouds dotting the sky.

But I am winter, and with a trembling hand I press my hand along her jaw, the severity of the situation just beginning to scratch the barrier of my mind. Multiple questions scramble in my mind, thoughts crossing like tangled wires. Father—no the word falls from my mind, empty of personal meaning like mother was supposed to mean to her. We were new to the term eighteen, simply children attempting to hide behind the guise of adulthood. Having children was not a phrase we had yet added to our repertoire, and with the words she speaks I attempt to keep the feelings of uneasiness repressed to only a thought, “I didn’t think it was true, but I went to your mother and confirmed it.” My breath catches and my eyes widen as I stare, the rest of her words fading in volume behind the rapidly increasing beat of my heart. Her attention flickers to where her hand is pressed against her stomach, and my own follows suit as she speaks again, “Surprise, I suppose.” My fingers lock with hers, a cold palm pressed to the warmth that radiates from her skin, and as we remain locked about the same ideal, a child neither of us were truly expecting existed beneath, purity which we’d wish to keep engrained into its being.

I press a kiss to her forehead, resting my own against the latter as my eyes remained on our hands pressed together, father—no the word falls meaningless, like a title I couldn’t claim responsibility for. “Surprise is right—” and with a chuckle it falls to the air around us, “but it looks like I gave you a better present than I even imagined I would.”

A tender heart was not all that was required of a father, apparently.

And though my father and I had passed the basics of what was required in the bond between father and son, we had never strived to pass these boundaries, content to keep our distance as a passing nod to each other’s sanity. Cody had never been close to him either, and truly the only one of the three boys brought about by his blood that had spared him anything more than what was required had been Owen.

Surely my father found disappointment in both Cody and I, the same type of disappointment that lingered in Cody’s vein, personifying only in the outbursts of anger and snark he let fall from his lips on occasion.

If I had been the first to know about our soon to be responsibility, instinct refused to tell me if I would have been inclined to go first to my mother or father, or rather, keep it hidden until the obvious nature of it all became known. However, Tweed’s anxiety and suspicion had caused my mother to be the first to know, and it seemed that my father knew about even the air that my mother breathed.

Needless to say, his hand upon my shoulder in fatherly beckoning was one that struck me as strange, and as we sat out on the porch we shared words striking with more meaning than any in the previous eighteen years. Speaking of responsibility and burden he attempted to pass the weight of parental guidance to my own shoulders, but yet the words fell to a mind that could not seem to grasp them, and eventually he concluded his spiel with the reassurance that he indeed believed in Tweed and I’s ability to raise a child.

Making my way through the rusted back door I curled up in the now empty bed, my mind caught on her absence alone. The notion kept me up long enough to cause worry to seep into my thoughts, and so I shifted from the bedroom down the hall, where, before turning the corner her voice caught my ear. My name on her lips was still the sound of dreams, and as a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth I poked my head around the corner, finding her curled against the couch.

Her longing look caused me to realize I had only paid attention to half of what she had said, and absentmindedly I began to nod in affirmation, giving passing thought to my shirt wrapped around her body.

I situated myself behind her in a way I hoped caused her no discomfort before laying a hand upon her back and attempting to soothe her pain. Laying my chin upon the top of her head I pressed her back against me, her warmth the comfort on these nights in which the cold seemed to almost overtake the both of us.

But she was the fire that burned deep within that once broken heart of mine, and with it left the embers of a hope I had just begun to be able to put a finger on.

Letting my opposite hand entangle with her own before letting both rest against her stomach I took in that stillness which seemed to surround us with a false peace, “I pray every day that this child favors you more than me.”