Dear future Husband,
I would love to say that I pray for you all the time, that I
cover you in the blood, and I speak nothing but life over you.
I would love to say that I war against provinces and
principalities in your name and call down heavenly messengers on your behalf.
But I don’t.
I fail fully in that area.
The truth, the honest truth and nothing but the truth is
that while I think about you, I spend most of my time fantasizing about you.
Are you tall?
Is your caramel complexion perfection?
Is your
jaw chiseled?
What does the frame of your body do?
Does it ripple as you work
out, does the sweat glisten off you back?
How’s your smile ? Do you have a perfect row of chick-let
teeth that gleam as you do a half-cocked grin?
Will our intimacy be mind-blowing or medicore….
I compare you to my past, to the men from before. I stack
you up against them. I weigh your future accomplishments against their past
deeds.
I reminisce about their past romantic gestures.
I’ve already instructed
you on what you need to do based on what has been done.
And even yet, I become angry at you.
Where were you when he
hurt me?
Why couldn’t you comfort me in my loneliness?
If you had been there
when I struggled with my body and my face would you have prevented the trail of
men that I left in my wake?
I get sad at you, because I ponder on the hurts you’ve
experienced, from the women who weren’t me. Did they hurt you, leave scars I
could see?
Did they claw at your heart, take pieces that belonged to
me?
Sometimes I sigh at your childhood…the one I concocted in my
head. If you’re anything like me, it was unstable…yet stable. It was imperfect,
yet adequate.
Did you fight the demon’s of dysfunction, and triumph only
to fail.
Will you reveal your past pain to me through tears as we sit on the
bed?
Will I have to fix you because someone else has broken parts of you?
I pray not.
I imagine my complexity and it makes me anxious
to meet yours.
Dear future husband,
I’ll be honest: I don’t feel good
enough for you. I worry that I won’t be what you want, deserve or need.
Worst,
I’m just afraid of the reality.
So I look at my list, the same one I gave to God.
And as X, Y, Z and he walk by, I mentally cross them off. I
anticipate you, but dread it at the same time.
Ecclesiastes, a season for everything.
So while I wait for you, I’m finally going to work on me.
Dear future husband,
I pray this letter finds you well.
I pray that
you forgive my failures.
I pray that you pray for me and do as I wish, not as I do.
Because the pedestal you stand on, I will never reach.
Love,
Obioma
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| Doing a lot with my new hat and kimono. Secret: the hat was only $7 dollars, so was the kimono. I love deals! |
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