I was going through a little cupboard yesterday and stumbled across a box. Filled with ninety postcards. One for each day that Kyle and I were apart in the fall of 2008. He was travelling the world, on a trip that had been planned before he even knew I existed. I was home, having just returned from a year in Korea. Waiting, as the days got shorter and the air got colder, for him to return. For us to begin the life we'd secretly dreamed of sharing together for eleven long months, and openly, for one short, exhilirating month after that.
He wrote me a postcard every single day. From Thailand. India. Bahrain. Greece. Italy. Switzerland. And on and on. Always with an elaborate little drawing squished in the margins. Sometimes in an envelope, together with a letter. He never missed a day. I'd read them over and over and over again. He'd tell me that he saw me in everything, every second, everywhere he went. I missed him acutely. I'd look at the picture on the front and close my eyes tight, and imagine us being there together. I knew we would, someday. Someday we will.
The days are longer now. The air is so hot that it's sometimes hard to breathe. I still gets pangs of that longing though. A day apart. Eight hours apart. Reuniting is a celebration. It's a feeling that I hope never goes away.
"Little red wagon
Little red bike
I ain't no monkey, but I know what I like
I like the way you love me, strong and slow
I'm taking you with me, honey baby
When I go."
-- Bob Dylan, "Buckets of Rain"