I wake to a raspy low call from Jeb’s bedroom, “Moooom.”

Two days ago he boogie boarded himself right into some sort of cold/fever thing. It’s a run-of-the-mill kind of illness that doesn’t have me worried about him – he’ll recover. But the fever is high enough, the nose runny enough, his energy sluggish enough, to put me in full-time nurse mode.

This does not bode well for my plans.

Let me pause right now and say that I am thankful that Jeb is not suffering a dire illness. Give thanks that he is strong enough to bounce back from this bug in a day or two. I realize things could be much, much worse. From this perspective my next paragraph is downright petty but I’ll write it anyway.

There are no crafted words of poetry or any interesting prose for the Archives today. I have searched my photo files and I can’t seem to even find a photograph that is worthy to spruce up this wilting, germ-laden post.

The boring truth this morning at 5:41am is I’ve got a sick kid on the couch in the dark, a work deadline looming and still that same 750 word writing assignment to start. That masterpiece is due to be shared with a roomful of prolific writers on Saturday.

Furthermore, my suitcase from the trip I returned from in 2011 is still unpacked at my feet on January 10, 2012. And I’m surrounded in my living room by four loads of laundry, folded but not yet put away.

I’m sure you don’t care to hear the mundane details. Frankly, I don’t want to write them.  Maybe they’re all just a distraction from the sweet but scary path I am carving with the Bohemian.

That in the midst of all the aforementioned, I haven’t spent a night away from him. That this morning, between temperature taking and herbal tea making, I’m browsing the classifieds looking for a dresser. Like the kind that is a permanent piece of furniture. You know, a furnishing used for clothing. Not mine. But his.

I remember when I offered him half a drawer at my place. That was big.

But this, this is too big to write about it yet. I’ll stick with complaining that my son has a cold that’s keeping me from doing my work. Right now I just can’t describe what it feels like to hear the Bohemian say words like “family”, “love” and “stay” all together.

For seven years there’s been only “I” or “me”. And I can’t say for sure right here in the Archives, because I’m just that sort of cautious.

But I think…I sense…what has just come into my life is a whole new world of “we.”

Returning home on a holiday makes it harder to land. I may have my favorite brand of coffee here, my familiar bed, but I’m still not in my groove.  The suitcase is not yet unpacked and I’ve got a stack of tasks at hand.

The writing workshop I signed up for six months ago, looms ahead in ten days. I’m supposed to bring 750 words describing some kind of extraordinary experience. My life seems like a series of synchronistic events (just like yours) but for some reason, I’m drawing a blank. I can’t seem to cull one phenomenal event.

Marvels aside, life goes on. The referenced dishes from last week’s post have arrived. With a carload of boxes, I drive Jeb and the Bohemian home for dinner. Jeb’s in the backseat practicing blowing bubbles with Orbit gum. The Bohemian’s in the passenger seat with one large hand gently curved to the back of my head. I steer past banana trees and over the one-lane bridge.

From the back seat comes a question from my eight year old’s uninhibited, gum-filled mouth. “Are you guys going to get married?”

I stare straight ahead at the curve in the road, the corners of my mouth turned up in a soft smile. I don’t look at the Bohemian, though I feel him in our collective quiet.

When neither of us answer, Jeb prods, “No, really, just tell me.”

I can’t even sneak a sideways glance, as I hold the wheel and turn into our driveway. Perfect timing.

Jeb adds to the silence, “I hope so.”

I pull up and place the car in park. The Bohemian makes the best reply. “You’ll find out.”

Satisfied, Jeb’s out the door and jumping on his skateboard. I unlock the front door. Busy myself with the unloading of the car and the Bohemian helps me with the boxes, moving in his typical calm with steady ease.

It’s like this with him. He rounds the corners of awkward moments and leaves them to settle in the rear view mirror. He asks me how I want things, then does it. Or sets things up in better ways than I could have imagined.

It’s extraordinary, really. Not the kind that one could see at first glance, like some sort of light show from the beyond (though the man is quite a sight to behold – I’d say he sparkles). No, it’s a quiet kind of phenomenon that’s even more spectacular. A deep inside incredible. The kind that creeps up and surprises you in a slow and steady satisfaction.

It conjures notions of spending days and days with him. It softens me.

It feels, quite simply, extraordinary.