It'll always feel like the first Christmas

Our first Christmas together, five years ago, he had built for me a small nightstand, white in color, imperfect in its construction, an English version of Le Petit Prince carefully stacked between other titles while my cousins gifted me the original version, in French, that same year. 

I have had four different addresses recorded to my name since then and gasped out loud at his suggestion of donating the item, made with love from his two hands, when we moved in our new home the first week of this soon-to-be past year. 

Hands that continue to build and fix and make this home more his and mine and ours together. That is his love language to me while I am still trying to find out my own for him. 

And while we sat there, buried in blankets with no heat in the house, him caressing me while I grasped on to a vintage book he managed to track down for me, both of us breathing quietly, staring at the Christmas lights illuminating our faces and bodies across the living room, he said things to me that made the illusion of time between then and now oscillate between five hours and five decades all at once. 

All is well because we understand each other. All is well because we have each other.