on saying yes

 

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if involves a corner booth, in that pocket of morning before the world awakes, with a hot mug of coffee against your lips, say yes.

if there's a meadow, with wildflowers shin high and queen anne's lace and renegade weeds, on the side of an old county road and no cars for miles and it's time to stretch your legs and he grabs your hand to dance, say yes.

if there is a sliver of sun against the clean carpet, in that spot beneath the living room window, and your dog is stretched out inside it inviting you to lay there and rest, say yes.

if you're leaning against his car and the stars are parading around the ceiling of night and he tells you those three words that every date, phone call and late night movie have slowly, steadily been inching toward, and he asks you back, when you feel it in your gut, say yes.

say yes to sleeping late on saturday when the windows are open and there is nothing on the calendar until supper, to getting on your knees in the dead of night when your household is asleep and asking the Lord for things that escape you in the bustle of the day, to chocolate and red wine and poorly acted movies, to guttural laughs and nights in the kitchen with your sister.

to ignoring the e-mail, homework, deadlines and commitments for an hour and laying on the bed with a pup that will one day walk slow and hobble, not run toward the tennis ball. to sending flowers and snail mail, and driving all day just to see someone for a few hours. to walking on rocks in the ocean, taking too many pictures that only you appreciate, and humming in your cubicle.

say yes to enough of the right, good things, and the nos will reveal themselves in due time. peek their little heads out and remind you, not now, my dear one, not quite yet. you've still got some dancing to do.