Everyday there are so many things for which I wish you were present. Very often, they are insignificant, but still, I wish that you were there. Today, while driving through the back of our neighborhood, there were these very pretty beds that had suddenly bloomed with dozens of daffodils. And remember the 2 trees on the island in the neighborhood pond? One of them has snapped in half and bent over and its top is scratching the surface of the water. Perhaps it happened on a recent windy day.
On my drive to Hometown today, I tried to distract myself with This American Life and Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me and Fresh Air. In the latter, Terry Gross interviewed the creators of South Park about The Book of Mormon which, even though I am not a fan of musicals, made me wonder if it might make for a fun outing. On another episode, she interviewed Seth McFarlane and played some irreverent Family Guy clips.
I thought that you would have enjoyed both.
Remember that stretch of valley that suddenly pops up along the thruway? Remember how on a wet day it is always filled with mist and really beautiful, and we often wanted to stop and take a photo but there was never a safe way or place to quickly pull off onto the side of the road? Well, the sky was bright and sunny today, so there was no mist, but the trees that cover the mountains surrounding that valley are beginning to sprout new leaves, so everything was a bright, spring green. You would have thought that it was pretty.
I recently told you that I don’t just miss you everyday, I miss you all day. That is true. It is the first thing that I am cognizant of when I wake up in the morning, and the last thing I know when I finally fall asleep. It wakes me up in the middle of the night. You are the person that I want to have all of these experiences with, including the small and insignificant ones. You are the one that I want to care if I made it to my destination, and the one that I want to call to tell you that I did. I have a huge, gaping hole in my chest, and it is so cliché, but it is unrelenting and hurts like hell.
I want to be the person in your corner, and I want you to be the person in mine, including in ways that we perhaps got lazy about in the past. I want us to support each other during good times and bad. The next time you run a race, I want to see you cross the finish line. I want us to frame and hang some of your small pear paintings in our kitchen. When you go out of town, I want to have pizza or Chinese food waiting for you when you return, because you know I don't cook.
I want us to go to concerts and movies and readings and bike rides and to drive through Canada listening to books on tape and NPR during the long stretches between Green Gables and New Brunswick. I want us to descend the Grand Canyon together, and sometime after that, hike through Joshua Tree. I want us to hold hands while walking through a park and share a blanket while watching movies. I want to go find those rocks in Dogtown and watch the sun set from a beach on Nantucket. I want us to sometimes read the same book, and sometimes together. I want you to kiss me goodbye in the morning and for me to kiss you hello in the evening. I want you to reach for me at night.
I wish that we were talking about these things. I wish that I wasn't typing them out here.
I love you. There are two lives here. I wish that you would meet me halfway.