I have been so quiet today.
Mostly what I've done is watch Call The Midwife. Yes. That's about it.
I think I miss my husband. I miss his physical presence, yes, but I also miss the buffer he offers me against the world, against loneliness, against the fears that settle into my bones and take their hats off and drape their coats on the backs of chairs and settle down to stay.
This is the way of it.
There is some part of me that doesn't trust anyone's ability to do this for me. When one, as a child, does not experience that presence in their life, another person (or, in the best case, two persons) who protects and provides and cherishes, it is difficult, I think, to trust that one is worthy of such and one becomes to believe that either such an idea is an illusion or that, alternately, not something which will ever truly come to you.
To others maybe. But not really to you.
Or to me, as the case may be.
And when Mr. Moon goes away, even though it is completely illogical, there is a part of me which says to myself, "See? People always leave."
My mind has not been a pleasant place to be in today. Not at all. Nor my body either. Every year when my husband goes away, I develop mysterious pains and aches and illnesses and I sleep like sleep is water and I am dying of thirst. I think it is my mind's twisted way of keeping me close to home. It tells me I am ill and therefore, anchored to house and bed.
So it has been this weekend.
Well, it's Sunday night. La-di-dah. The night-time birds are chirping their evening song, the chickens are put away safely in the roost, the cat is fed. A car goes down the street, its tires making swish-song, then it is gone. And tomorrow, the boys will be here at 6:30 in the morning and that will be a completely different sort of day. There will be chaos again and kisses. There will be someone else to cook for, to care for, to tend, to love.
I am not so good, I think, at receiving love. I am better, I believe, at giving it but except for giving it to children, there always seems vast risk involved.
I'm sorry. I think I miss my husband.
I miss a lot of things. I have missed a lot of things. Sometimes I feel as if I have pretended to know how to do calculus when I never learned my times tables. Does this make sense?
Well. I'll be here tomorrow. Things will look different then. They always do.
And right now, I'm reaching into the deepest part of my heart to find the words to end this. To come up with something that will say it all, be so truthful and so eternally real. But all I can think of is this:
Come home, baby. Come home safe.