I see it--a rough wound on his left hand. I remember how it got there; he earned it protecting me. In an attempt to catch his parents' rabbit, we cornered the animal, and I caught him. He quickly grabbed the animal from me to save me from its claws. Subsequently, he was deeply cut.
I walked away irritated. He was scared he hurt my pride, his face covered in worry--as if I would assume he thought I could not handle the little beast. I was irritated he was hurt in the process. And now, on that same hand, the claws' markings have turned to dark scars--just a small reminder of how he makes painful strides to take care of me every day.
Each week we gain something new from each other, for better and for worse.
I have watched his face soften for fear he could chase me away, and his reassuring words grow softer each time my face changes with incident. But we never fight--we have no time for such games. We say how we feel, and still love each other in the end. Sometimes, it pays to be honest--and it pays well if you are honest with someone you love. Fighting for who you love can be as simple as never holding back, and proving to them no matter the situation, you are there to love them in such a devoted way only the other can feel or understand.
We both have terrible frown lines born of the stress of making the other happy, and the distraught of not being near each other during those odd months of the year where the climate is at its highest and lowest misery. Perhaps they, too, are mementos of something I have sacrificed for him. Yet, I worry even when he is near me. Of all lessons life has taught me, it has taught me I control very little. Such a realization scares me; I have dreams of a future.
We walk into the room, and I look down at my left hand. It sparkles even with little light to catch the angles of its faces. Another memento I wear proudly. Not a scar, but a proud reminder of the one holding my hand through life. I will never want anything more than this.