He leans back to gaze out the window, eyes flitting without aim. It is not the scenery, but a woman he labors to see. He is not scanning the garden for her pacing form, rather he is struggling to conjure her in his mind. Face and figure are not envisioned, but he catches the rush of white, a flash of smile and laughing eyes.
The pen begins a cursive dance on the paper.
"I wish for a friend, a companion," he writes.
"She will have a head for musing and thinking, she will know enough to know she knows very little, but most of all she'll have a head that ever finds my shoulder.
She will have eyes that see beauty and wonder in every corner of her world. Eyes that weep for joy, eyes that seek and perceive; eyes that speak her mind.
She will have a mouth that sings and smiles, a mouth to praise. Kindness will be on her tongue, her words will heal and build.
She will have ears to hear troubles and woes, she will listen with patience and care. Her ears will hear out counsel, and will burn at what is coarse.
She will have arms of strength and competence. Arms that can labor, cradle, and embrace.
She will have hands that are busy, clever, adept, and they will fit just right in mine.
She will have feet that look for adventure, she will have legs that run when walking bores her, dashing to be by my side.
She will have a heart of gratitude, compassion and joy. Her laugh will be freely given, she shares it with any and all. Her heart is strong and trusting, she will not fret or fear.
She will and must not be perfect, but she will be perfect for me. And her head, eyes, mouth, ears, heart, arms, hands, legs and feet she has surrendered to God; they will be a treasure to me."
This phantom, this woman that walks the pages of his mind, is the woman I resolve to be.