We have a rhythm to our journey. Like the clacking of train tracks, it tends to be uneven.
His mood changes, and his love, constant but as changeable as the seasons of his moods, comes under their fire.
It ebbs and flows but always can be seen rippling under the changes. He returns to me with his adoration.
I am grateful. A storm has passed.
It might return.
Or he might unexpectedly be as happy as he was this afternoon.
It’s always different and then the same somehow.
this is our life 