::: stream of consciousness whilst awaiting my twentieth anniversary :::

I love celebrations.
I love planning them,
preparing for them,
sneaking around about them
(paying for them, not so much),
and springing them on people.
I love surprises,
both creating them
and receiving them.
My dear husband?
Not really.
He doesn't create surprises,
and most birthdays/anniversaries/holidays,
he's attacked by some virus or bacteria
and sleep overtakes him,
and I am left alone to celebrate.
It's not his fault, but yet I blame him.
It's not his fault, but yet,
every holiday,
every birthday,
every anniversary,
I awake, hoping to find
breakfast in bed,
or a piece of pottery,
or a surprise getaway,
or a love song written,
or even just a letter,
a paragraph,
a sentence.
The emptiness leaves me feeling
selfish.
It's one of my biggest fears about Heaven,
that I'm looking forward to this grand mansion,
this eternal life free from pain and tears
and sickness and anxiety
and worry and fear
and loneliness and hope deferred,
but that I will find, instead, only death
and darkness,
and nothing.
Dear God, I want to lean on you
and find my joy in you,
but this too too solid flesh,
which will not melt,
longs for tactile proof
that I have worth,
that I am known.
In the meantime,
I will create the surprises,
and try not to hope for
too much.