ArcaMax

I told him that heaven was this: the midmorning light, a beverage in hand, and us heading to the porch. The kids are at school. The chores can wait. Some mornings aren't about doing. They're about being. If you're lucky, you can be with someone who makes even your weirdness feel like it belongs.

This morning, I was on the porch with my husband. The air was still coolish, bracing for the three-digit temperatures arriving midday. The conversation unhurried in the best way. We talked about politics, the neighbors' obsession with red cars, and our running debate on whether either of us has undiagnosed ADHD. None of it mattered, and somehow all of it matters.

Later, we peeled ourselves from our porch and landed in a nearly empty restaurant, one of those places where you know the suitor hunt is strong during the weekends, but the garage door windows are strangely more charming during the daylight. We kept talking, the only two people free while the rest of the world was under the control of corporations.

There's a rhythm to this kind of conversation. It's a looseness in the subjects, but still a trust and a soft landing for every stray thought. It's being able to say something weird or tender or slightly unhinged and knowing the other person won't flinch. There might be a laugh or an elevated edit tossed right back; they stay with you.

I told him, out of pocket, this might be a way to honor my father. I repeated what he already knew, that my dad would tell me, "Do you live to work or work to live?" This morning was about living because nothing is guaranteed to us.

I used to think connection was about obsession, about sacrifice, about the loss of self. But more, I think the deepest form of love is in the dailiness of it all. In the random stories, the nonsense questions, the two-person commentary track on whatever life happens to be doing around you. The swift look between you when you're around others that means, 'We are absolutely going to talk about that in the car ride to the taco stand before we go home,' and that might be the most fun part of the night.

There is something sacred about being known so fully that you don't have to measure your words before you speak. You don't have to sound smart, sorted, or put-together. You can talk about enjoying the shoes you bought, the dystopian realities of life, or building a second floor to the house.

"I know the director of Community Development," I said lazily. "I could email him right now. Figure out if we can do it."

"We could finally get that view that we wanted," my husband replied more insistently, the view of the mountains that are hidden by the secluded families in our suburban neighborhood. If you stand just right on the front of our lawn, you can see the peaks. If you stand on our roof, during those unseasonably hot days when we put on Christmas lights, you can see most of the mountain range.

I said, "You're the only view I want."

Maybe that's the real intimacy. Not the fireworks or the drama, but the quiet comfort of being allowed to think out loud. It's having someone who shows up, not because you're saying anything profound, but because you're you, and they want to be near that.

Saying that my husband is my best friend feels like treacle. Saying that he's my favorite person is the reality.

I know the world feels unstable right now, but if you're lucky enough to have someone you can sit next to, coffee in hand, and say all the things that don't matter, just to find the ones that do, hold on to that. Because even when nothing seems to matter, it's people who do.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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