I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(110)

My girl waves her hand in front of her face to keep from crying.

“And three…” Her voice cracks. “You cried the first day of kindergarten. But when I promised to take you to your school and walk you to your classroom, you stopped.”

A single tear trails down Kay’s cheek. She goes to swipe it away, but I turn her to me and gently dab it dry. I hope my eyes convey to my beautiful girl how much I appreciate that she’s sharing this—her most private ritual—with my undeserving ass.

In case she doesn’t know, I tell her.

She responds, “I’ve wanted to share this with you for a while now, but I wanted to wait until after you knew everything. I’m glad you’re here with me today.”

“Always, baby. Not just today, always.”

I want our future to be always, I truly do. I know in my heart that someday I will ask this woman to be my wife. I love her that f*cking much. So much that I can’t imagine a life without her. I am a part of Kay, and she is most definitely a part of me. We are dug into each other’s souls, burrowed in to stay. When Kay feels pain, it hurts me. When she’s happy, I am f*cking joyful. And seeing my girl happy is my number one goal. If I can put a smile on her face at least once each day, make her life a little brighter, then I know I’ve done my best.

Since today is shaping up to be all about sharing and shit, when we get back to the house I decide to show Kay my sketchbooks from prison. I promised her she could someday see them and today feels right.

Not that I expect her to, but she doesn’t judge as she turns the pages of each book. But she does slow at the sketch of the beaten prisoner in the cell, the drawing depicting the cellmate standing at the bars, indifferent to the suffering right behind him.

“You saw that?” she asks quietly. I just nod.

Next, my girl reaches the drawing of the heroin addict shooting up. She studies the angels and their pornographic poses. When she looks at me and raises an eyebrow, I just shrug one shoulder.

“Pervert,” she mumbles. She’s not judging, she’s actually trying to lighten things up.

“Look who’s talking,” I volley back, playing along. “If you stare any longer you might burn a hole in the paper.”

She swats my arm and we both laugh. But then my girl grows quiet. I ask her what’s wrong and she says, “Nothing, it’s just…”

My eyes meet hers questioningly, and she continues, “Well, it’s just I have to still write down the three things I told Sarah today at the cemetery, and I was wondering if maybe you’d like to see the journals. That way you’ll learn more about Sarah, what she was like.”

I tell Kay I’d love to see the journals, so she goes next door to her apartment to retrieve them.

While I wait for her to return, my heart swells with happiness that sweet girl wants to share with me what she has left of her sister, but my heart also breaks a little at the same time. My girl should have so much more than these fragmented memories she’s trying to hold on to. She should have her sister here with her, alive and well. I think I finally realize how very close Kay and Sarah were. In many ways, with such a big age difference, Sarah was like Kay’s daughter. Maybe someday I can give my girl a child of her own. Not a replacement for the sister she lost, never that, but a new life that may lessen her sorrow, a new life that’s part of her and me.

But all of that is for way down the road, not for today.

Kay returns and we sit on the living room couch. She opens the first journal and hands it to me.

I begin to read, and shit, do I learn a lot about little Sarah Stanton. In addition to what I heard Kay say earlier today at the cemetery, I discover Kay’s little sister loved chocolate-chip ice cream, but hated any that was fruit flavored. Sarah loved cloudy days, but feared thunderstorms immensely. She was just learning how to ride a bike the summer she died. When Kay and Sarah’s father gave the bike to a thrift store down the street the training wheels were still attached.

I turn the pages. Kay follows along, her eyes wet.

When Sarah was a toddler she played patty-cake with my girl almost every single day. Sarah knew there was no Santa Claus, but believed in the tooth fairy. And then I reach this section: Sarah loved the color purple, and she called my girl Kay-bear, never Kay. Sweet girl touches my hand and informs me these were the three things she told Sarah the day she met me in the church parking lot. I read the last entry from that day: Sarah couldn’t sleep unless she was holding Peetie. The stuffed rabbit I saved from a junkie-filled parking lot the night I meted out justice for Kay. Now, it means even more that I retrieved that little bunny.

I set the journals down and I notice Kay crying softly. I hold her until the tears subside. Afterward she asks me to make love to her. I ask if she’s sure that’s what she really wants. To me, she looks sad at the moment, like maybe she might need some time alone as opposed to me all over her. But she tells me the opposite is true—when we’re together, like that, it’s an affirmation of life.

I never thought of sex that way, but I try my best to think of it like that today. When we get started, everything I do, I do slowly and gently. Careful and tender touches, soft caresses, and light kisses. When I finally bury myself deep inside the woman I love I move differently—so-o-o slowly—allowing us both to savor the connection.

And for the next hour, I make slow, sweet love to my girl.