The beau is gone this week on a work trip, again. This happens about once a month, sometimes more.
Things are different when he’s gone. I morph back into a careless bachelorette. I stay up too late because there’s no reason to go to bed. My dinners consist of whatever can be heated up in the toaster oven or eaten directly out of the container (witness Monday night’s dinner, which consisted of peanut butter and bananas).
I miss him when he’s gone. We don’t have to be together for every second of every day, we don’t even have to talk sometimes. It’s just his presence and the knowing that he’s there. When he’s not here, I’m always bumping up against the hole in my life. I am more aware of loss.
I’ve heard a lot of talk lately about being thankful, and I suppose this is a good time of year for that. But more than anything I just feel lucky, incredibly lucky every time he comes back home again.
Dog in window on Catalina Island
