Of night and light and the half-light.

The most adored memory I have of my childhood is just a feeling, really. There is no particular day that it impressed me and there is no specific reason. Just a warm, recurring feeling experienced throughout my childhood. It is that feeling (and how it's intensity has sadly faded) of falling asleep in the backseat of a car that had been in motion for what seemed forever then came to rest in a chilled garage. Of being wrapped in my father's jacket and carried to my bed. The feeling of my mother's hands on my skin as she gently tugged my clothes off and slipped my nightgown on while I half-slept. The yellowish glow of light from the hallway. My father's low murmurs as he tucked my sister into her bed in the next room. The gurgle of the humidifier. My mother placing a small, flowered Dixie cup of water on my nightstand. The smell of clean sheets and real vanilla beans on my dresser. My father's weight easing down beside me on the mattress, trying not to wake me as he whispered his goodnight. Two soft kisses on my forehead and the gentle creak of my door shutting behind them. Bliss. Warmth. Safety.

I haven't felt that in years. That warmth. That half-drunk bliss. I haven't felt that safe in years.

Monday night I left work and drove through the fattest of raindrops listening to a song a friend of Kate's wrote about a story I had told. I was too lost in that song and I missed my exit. I was three miles past it. I got off the expressway with the intention of getting right back on toward home when my gas light came on. I pulled into the nearest station, ran in, and came back out to find the only man, besides my father, who had ever made me feel that warm-half-drunk-blissful-safety sitting in the car parked next to mine.

I was surprised to see him at this station. It was much too far from where reason would place him. But only a part of me was surprised - another part thought it made a lot of sense. And his casualness about it all was both upsetting and comforting at the same time. He asked about my father. He liked my earrings. He remarked that he was sickened by the smell of grilled meat from Bennigan's down the street. He would see me later.

Ryan was the only man who rubbed my earlobe as I fell asleep on his lap. Who brought me orange pop and a giant chocolate bar whenever I didn't feel well. The only one who knew how to climb into bed in the middle of the night without frightening me. The only one who took care of me without me asking or even hinting for it. The only one I ever really wanted to take care of. We had such a beautiful romance in college and after we parted I always thought of him as the "one who got away." We re-met just a couple of years ago. We recently tried and failed to rekindle our romance. The last time I spoke to him was painful. We were both so angry that we just weren't who we used to be - we didn't "have it" anymore - that we took it out on each other and we shouldn't have.

But running into him by such random Chance didn't make me feel like Fate was trying to bring us together again, really. That possibility - that want - is certainly gone. But it did reinforce this overwhelming desire I've felt lately. Wanting to take care of someone the way I used to take care of him. The way he took care of me. But not just anyone. (Someone.)

Lately I've been shutting myself in, baking gingerbread and blueberry muffins. Carefully washing dishes by hand instead of cramming them in the dishwasher as I typically would. Thoughtfully constructing handmade cards and well wishes. Wrapping up silly gifts and sending them off to loved ones in different parts of the country. Buying bottles of red wine and fresh jams and guest towels. Spraying fig around the house, wiping down the counters, lighting candles, putting on coffee and nice music in case someone were to stop in to visit. I would want them to feel most welcome. Lately I have spent most of my free time daydreaming about making someone else feel warm and safe and happy.

I read a blog today written by someone I don't know who proclaimed that she wasn't about to do anything for a man that he could do himself. I laughed a little bit at myself because of this "sweet little housewife without the husband" role I've succombed to lately. Generally, I am fiercely independent. I have my own career, passions, goals, friends. I have my own home and take out my own trash. Mow my own lawn. Single mother. I am a modern woman by all accounts. So months ago I would have agreed with her statement. I would have thought to myself, Self-sufficiency please! I want to be with a man who doesn't want (nor expect) me to do those things. And now - now I say, I want to be with a man who doesn't expect me to do those things, but whom I want to do those things for. Now I couldn't have disagreed more with her declaration.

I do. I want to do things for a man that he could easily do for himself. I want to turn the lamp on for him as he reads. I want to warm up his car on a freezing January morning. Make him coffee and warm apple pie for no reason at all. I want to fold his laundry and tuck it neatly into his dresser. Run hot water and soap over his plate. Sweep crumbs from his breakfast tray. Not for any man - for the right man, of course. And not because I want something in return, but because these little things are like small, flowered Dixie cups of water and the rubbing of earlobes. They make you feel warm and blissful and safe. And it could be just a phase I'm in - like the ones an ex used to label my "baby fever" periods. Or it could be me feeling hopelessly romantic. Maybe that I am feeling unsafe, unwarm, unblissful myself.

But it could be happiness, too. Feeling safe, warm and blissful myself. Wanting to share it. Wanting to make someone feel as if they are being carried to their bed on a cold winter evening wrapped in a spice scented overcoat. Soft hands on their skin. Soft light and whispers in the other room. Fresh water for drinking within arm's reach. Gentle kisses on their forehead. Half-drunk bliss.