Beauty is eskimo kisses and too-rough-tickles and rumbling that ends in tears. Beauty is the best of you, and the worst of you, and the people that have held you through your every self. Beauty sees how you strive to be better, and holds your hand while you try. Beauty is the love that is bigger than anything, bigger than tears, and mistakes, bigger than breathlessness and wonder. Beauty is the skin that feels like home, the eyes that you seek in the night, the fingers that ask "will I be ok?". Beauty is being the answer to their question. Beauty is the negative space that you will fill together, your shared story gathering over the years until the story of all of you is the story of each of you, and you each own it the way you own your smiles.
I wonder what we will want to remember most when we are whiling away our final days; the great journeys, the moments of largesse and of grand discovery, awards, achievements, notes on somebody else's scale. Or will it be the tiny happenings that repeated themselves daily, whether we welcomed or resented them. A stream of consciousness all teeth and clutter and task and irony, serenaded by the noise of the vacuum and bare feet on the floorboards and the laughter.
Perhaps the most important things we did disguised themselves as the least important of all.