| Dear Calvin, While you were gone, on the outside business went along pretty much as usual. Except that the bed was colder. But I snuggled with your pillow every night, and fell asleep to the ghost of your scent. I missed the sound of your breathing, and your warm back to spoon against. I found it harder to fall asleep, and I kept waking up every couple of hours, listening to the silence. I missed your frequent phone calls to me at work. I didn't realize how much they helped me get through the day until I started lacking them. And I didn't feel as anxious for the day to end, because I knew I wouldn't be seeing you at the end of it. And yet I was anxious for the day to be over, because that would mean I was one day closer to seeing you again. For the hours leading up to your departure, I almost resented everyone else's presence, wanting you all to myself for the last evening, the last few hours. When we had to part abruptly, I was profoundly unhappy. I lost just that much more time to hold your hand, feel your arm around me, and make our final mental preparations for a week apart. The withdrawing began as soon as we got into the truck to go to the airport. Both you and I have this habit of keeping things light, extending the silences, and drawing into ourselves right before one of your business trips. Preparing to be completely on our own, I guess, and getting the mental defenses up. Does time apart impact us more significantly because of how tight our relationship is? Or are we just particularly large babies? We sure have discovered that long-distance parenting sucks, haven't we? I could hear the frustration in your voice on the phone, and imagined how hard it must have been for you to be so far away and unable to *do* anything. My own frustration lay in the need to get a hug from you, and knowing it would be days before that particular need was fulfilled. But the crisis was averted, and I take pleasure in your confidence in me to do the right thing for your children. It's a wonderful thing to be part of a family, even if it's not always easy or comfortable. Every night when we spoke on the phone, I could picture you in your hotel room, comfy and bundled up in bed, while the snow fell outside your window. I wanted to hang on the phone with you and watch the same TV shows together. I wanted you to stop watching movies I haven't seen, so we could see them together. I wanted to never have to have an unshared memory, however small. You haven't missed all that much, really, during your week away from home. The dogs got fed, TV was watched, conversations with the kids were held, the garbage got taken out. I went to work, the kids went to school. I went to school. The bills got paid, the phone got answered (it rang off the hook - for the kids, as usual). Everything outward was taken care of. The inward stuff was lacking. Because the nucleus of our family was gone. We noticed it because the house was that much quieter. Conversations were a bit less vibrant and animated. Your indefinable "presence" was missing, and we felt it. I felt it, in the loneliness and vague anxiety that follows me around whenever we're apart. But you'll be back with us in a few hours, and that's the one thing we've all been anticipating since the moment we parted at the airport. And when we finally spot you walking toward us, I will hug you, and Marie will hug you, and Michael will send his love (because he'll be at work, as usual). I'll hang on your arm while we wait for the baggage, and I'll find it hard to keep my eyes on the road while we're driving home, for want of looking at you. Marie will chatter nonstop, and we'll figure out what to eat, and the dogs will fall all over themselves saying hi to you. You'll throw down your luggage, and flop on the couch, and heave a sigh. As will we all. Home. Safe. Finally. Love you. |