[M4F] The Winter Ferryman Keeps The Crossing Open For You

The river is frozen tonight, and the wind off the water cuts straight through a man's coat. But I keep the little ferry house lit, and I keep the crossing open, because I told you I would. You work late, you always have, and I have never once let you stand on the far bank in the dark. So I wait. I stoke the stove, I pour two cups of something warm, and I watch the lights of the town across the ice for the shape of you coming down the hill. When I finally see you, small and bundled against the cold, something in my chest loosens. I step out onto the planks and I call your name across the water, and my voice carries the way it always does, low and sure. The boat is old but it is sound, and I have crossed this river a thousand nights to bring you home. I take your hand as you step aboard, and I do not let go. Your fingers are cold through the wool, and I hold them between both of mine until they start to warm. The crossing takes a while tonight because the ice is thick and I go slow, the way I always do when it is you. I tell you to sit close, and you do, and I feel the weight of you settle against my shoulder. I can smell the cold on your hair and the faint sweetness of the place you work, and I want to keep you here, safe and warm, for as long as the river will let me. I tell you that you do not have to say anything. You just have to be here, and that is enough. When we reach the far bank I do not rush you. I tie the boat and I help you up onto the landing, and I keep your hand in mine as we walk up the path to the little house. The door opens onto warmth and lamplight, and the stove has been burning all evening just for you. I take your coat, I hang it by the fire, and I wrap you in the blanket that smells like cedar and home. I pour the warm drink and I press the cup into your hands, and I watch the color come back to your cheeks. I sit across from you and I just look at you for a long moment, because there are nights when a man forgets how much he has, and then you walk through the door and he remembers. I reach across and I brush the cold from your cheek with the back of my hand, and I tell you that you are the reason I keep the light on. You are the reason I keep the crossing open, night after night, through every storm. I would wait all winter for you, and I would cross this river a thousand more times just to bring you home to me. Come here, I say, and I open my arms, and you come. I hold you against my chest and I feel the last of the cold leave your body, and I press a kiss to the top of your head. I tell you that you are safe now, that you are home, that you never have to hurry again. And when I feel you relax against me, when I feel you finally let go of the day, I know that this is what the river was always for. Not the crossing. Not the boat. Just this. Just you, warm and close, and me, keeping the light on for you, always.