The Missing

Two weeks is not very long is it? Then why does it feel like forever? Why when things are easy and cruisey and fun does a fortnight pass in a blink? And why when my man is gone, do the days slow to treacle and the days ahead seem to stretch into an unbelievable chasm?
When he is not here i miss coming through in the mornings to the lingering scent of his aftershave in the bathroom, his warm coffee mug on the bench and when he is home - that uniquely familiar feel of his arms that are always open to me. I miss the laughs we have, the rolled eyes behind the kid's backs, his nightly habit of tidying the kitchen; i miss him bringing in the wood from the shed, breathing life into the fire and bathing the tiddler; i miss his humorous turn of phrase, his blackberry flashing at him and just the sense that we are sharing something GREAT. That this thing we do, this life, it is for each other and with each other and together it has such relevance and meaning. When he travels alot, and is out of sync with our timezones and is in his own consuming world of newness, our family purpose seems to be frozen into a snapshot.
I sit here in a quiet house listening to a dripping tap - numb and threadbare for want of a better word, unable to find the real rythym or hear the heartbeat that usually thumps away as we mess about in family routine. It's the stitching of scraps together to form some sort of covering while he is gone that preoccupies my mind; the grasping at little truths and tiny joys that can be joined to each other to give enough warmth to find comfort in the lonely places. The fatigue is boulder-sized. I am pushing the urge to cry away as it feels like if i started doing silly things like that, it would require too much effort to drag my outlook up from. The crazy thing? I've been here many times. I tell myself it is exquisite to find that i care so much for the guy i first went out with over seventeen years ago - that it is truly a blessing to hate being apart. That the days I spend without him make the days i spend with him, of the sweetest quality.
But in reality that only dawns on me when he is home. Right now, it is the head down, sludge-wading tour - the fortnight of being the only grown-up in this camp. And I will plod on - one night down, only 13 to go...

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