Saturday, 16 April 2011
My lovely husband was away last week, interstate again, on business.
We cope fine when he is away.
I juggle a little more quickly, a little more intensely, but force myself to slip into a groove that excludes my need for him.
The bed is too big without him, but I fill it with books and children.
There is no clarity or anticipation to my evenings when I cannot expect him home, but the solitude to write and plan and focus is welcome.
There is no maleness around, no smell of him, no all encompassing hugs. No laundry or shirt ironing either.
We do not spend hours on the telephone with one another when he is away - to talk but to be apart makes that lonely gap widen.
And then, at last, he is home. I feel my whole being relax with sweet relief. (I am sorry to my Twitter friends who I abandoned rudely last night. He appeared. And my Twitter was forgotten mid tweet.)
Late evening sun with a view, and him, and talking and sideways glances. A shower together and reading together, curled up. Red wine and slow smiles and talking. Oh how I love talking with him.
He has come home and I am more grateful for him as a result of his absence.