Letters to Luthien

Letters to My Future Bride

Fields of Gold

My Darling, every letter I write is a seed in the garden of our love.

One day I will come to you, and with me, bring the harvest time grants us.

Then, we will walk in bliss through the vineyards, arm in arm, plighting our troth among the fields of gold.

I promise.

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August 28, 2012 Posted by | Promises | Leave a comment

In Sickness And In Health

Dear Darling,

I almost never get sick.

Maybe once a year, and that not very badly. I try to eat right, I exercise and I don’t engage in unhealthy habits.

But every now and again, I catch some passing illness, or fall prey to some physical ailment, and heaven knows what ills and traumas will befall us both as we age.

Presently, I’ve got people who make sure I’m not dying in bed, but I rather like the idea of you playing nurse-maid for me. I don’t know, maybe that’s just the clearest image in my mind of a wife who cares for me. I’m selfish that way. I want to see worry line your face, I want to see a furrowed brow, knitted and creased with anxiety. There’s something endearing and enthralling about a woman who makes a man’s worries her own.

I think about it because I’m feeling the slightest effects of ill health tonight. Nothing serious, nothing chronic, just enough to put me out of sorts. It’s frustrating because so much is in transition right now, I’m under many stresses and pressures, and I don’t need an impairment, however brief, to cloud my judgment.

And so of course, my thoughts turn to you, and how when we’re alone and I’m sick, you’ll take charge. How you’ll be that someone to watch over me. You’ll lay my armor aside and order me to bed. You’ll bring blankets, and hot water bottles, and cough syrups and herbs and medicines. It will be nothing worse than a debilitating cold or flu, but I’ll still have to tell you to stop calling the doctor.

You’ll read to me or see to it I have reading supplies. (Would you ever read to me anyway? I mean, as a normal course of events? Please?)

You’ll wipe my head with a cool damp cloth, you’ll monitor my temperature, you’ll massage my shoulders and plump my pillow. I’ll be sick and miserable and undesirable, but I can see you pampering me and turning me into a big baby. If I am so unfortunate as to be sick enough not to cherish your efforts at the time, I know it will be sweet and beautiful, and when I come out the other side a healthy man again, I’ll find some brilliant way to reward you.

Who knows! You might be one of those lethally practical kinds who confines me to bed and orders me around, out of love, but firmly. I’m trying to keep an open mind, Darling.

Oft times, no good deed goes unpunished. Perhaps in vengeance for your alliance with me against the affliction, it will take out its vengeance on you. All I know is, in that hour, be prepared for me to pamper and baby you. Hot soup in bed. And endless supply of movies and DVDs. I’ll come home from work with an arm full of flowers, a get-well teddy bear and a stack of poetry books. I’ll sit in a rocking chair while you sip on fluids, and ease your mind with Tennyson or Ella Wheeler Wilcox. I’ll smooth your hair, and part the matted parts plastered against your forehead to plant a kiss on it.

In this way, as in all others, we’ll care for each other. These will simply be the trials where we are less desirable creatures for whom to care. In a strange way, I welcome these as a chance to prove my love extends beyond mere sentiment. I promised I would love you in sickness and in health, and to that I will always hold.

Yours truly,
Beren

August 28, 2012 Posted by | Who I Need You To Be | 1 Comment