On the eve of my Birthday Month (which, in my opinion, is cause enough to celebrate), with a glass of wine in hand, I am contemplative. The night sky is a stunning shade of chambray indigo, and I can still see the outline of the world lived in – long days indeed.
Fly Guy in San Diego tonight, and I am missing him so.
Funny.
When he left for Boston yesterday, I curled up on his spot in the bed, listening to the silence, the absolute absence of him, and I just… was.
We spent his recent days at home laughing plenty and just being. There are those trips where he leaves us, and we carry on; lots going on, or simply not a lot of connection. And then there are the trips where I feel like my right arm has been cut off, my mouth sewn shut, and my heart left weeping. This was such a trip.
I shall text him now and tell him, remind him, and love him a little. Best to tell another when you miss them and how it feels.
There is always room for poetry.
I will be 43 soon, and with that, likely burdened with all the things I truly am, and all the things I am not. At this age, I do see all the good, all the wounds, too. I am unsure if I would ever go back to the bullet-proof days of my 20s, where resilience was a mainstay.
I hurt more now.
I laugh more now.
I relate more now.
I do not believe we are ever truly broken.
We come close—oh so very, very close. But at worst, we are wounded. And wounds heal. And our scars can indeed be beautiful art-things on our soul.
Now a part of a grand decade in age, I declare I still do not like eggplant, loud noises, or a lack of eye contact. I like real talk, the occasional spray of whipped cream right in my mouth, and using the word fuck.
To be a little more honest? I am starting to like me—to really, really like me.
Enjoy your beverages, friends. I’m going to listen to Neil Diamond now.