Monday, November 10, 2008
If you were here, I'd pour us both a cup of tea and set a plate on the table so full of biscuits that neither of us would feel awkward for wanting more than one. I'd put strawberry jam on the table too, in the most beautiful glass jar I received as a gift last spring and you'd smile because you'd understand why I love it so much. I'd tell you how much I've missed you, how foolish I was to think that somewhere beautiful, and it is beautiful here, could ever make me forget how important it is to be near those who matter most. You, just in case I haven't told you lately, you matter most, a ton, an enormous amount...and me, well, I've been a little slow to let you know that I've missed you since we moved. I've been a little slow to find the words to tell you that what I miss most is the little things, it's always the little things, isn't it? One of those little things is the nod - who knew a nod could be missed? But a nod, the knowing, comforting nod of someone who gets what you're saying, gets the history of your words, and well, that small, quick movement feels priceless when you're somewhere new. And sure, I'm meeting new people who might one day nod that way, but your nod, the one that I believe because you know the real me - the me that always says the most embarrassing thing, that cannot possibly be asked to find you in a crowd, that fears phone calls, public restrooms, and anything described as "fun" - that nod is valuable. While passing you the butter, of course there'd be butter, I'd tell you that I'm finding my own way here, doing things I never thought I'd do with a confidence I never thought I'd find, like riding the bus on new and unfamiliar routes, asking questions, branching out. I would tell you that it's been incredibly wonderful and incredibily difficult, that it's challening to start over, or just to build something new, and that even though we aren't there yet, and even though we still struggle a lot of the time, most days I would tell you it feels good to struggle, good to feel we're both alive. And after you'd made me laugh with your stories of home, your life and the ones you love, I'd sigh and tell you that I'm lucky to know you, to be able to watch your story unfold as I write my own. I'd pour you another cup of tea and as we waited for it to cool, I'd tell you that some days, just knowing you're out there gets me through, reminds me that I'm not alone, that we aren't alone out here. And when we were done and full of warm tea, and biscuits, and jam, we'd take a walk and I'd show you the view of the water, then turn around and show you the mountains, and without me having to say it, you'd understand why I had to come here, why we left, and without me having to say it, you'd understand why I miss you so much, why I spend time wishing you were here to share all of this. One day you will be here, you'll visit and the contents of this letter will play out with minor changes, you'll talk more, I'll babble less, the struggle, with its ebb and flow, will not feel so strong, and I'll be so grateful to be near you again that I'll most likely spend most of the time smiling, feeling lucky, being happy.
Until then, I'm sending you the best thoughts I possibly can.