Happy Valentine’s Day.

I imagine a rare day of winter sunlight, for a young man uncertain of himself. Hopeful every morning. Earnest in growing up. Bumping into close friends now maybe six months acquainted. Working hard to see everywhere at once. Then the girl assigned to the project unexpectedly, pretty and disconcerting. He isn’t taking her seriously, though, because these things don’t really happen to him, when they’re flirting over the books at the kitchen table, and she just pulls off her shirt, laughing, with eyes like a joyful cat’s.

I spend some long mornings with my wife. Years and years, we’ve slept together. I watch her curl up, stand, reach for things; her body tugging at mine across the room as if I were a sixteen year old boy.

Children aren’t burdened with the weight of memory – what a wonderful way to experience desire!

I watch my boys and think of this or that consequence. There’s a lot of ancient thunder and admonition against sex. I could tell them a few things about wishing we hadn’t. But then, those wishes are what make us pleasant to be around. Feel your blood boil, children. Live!

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