"What is to give light must endure burning." - Viktor Frankl
It wasn't until the landing gear, in a mechanical moan, released itself from the plane's belly that I knew I wasn't ready to be home yet. I made it through the drop-off an hour and 20 minutes prior without tears only now to fight them off as I sat sandwiched between two unfriendly, self-engaged passengers. I was four-weeks fine having forgotten the true delicacy of our fingers entwined, of his playful gazes followed by smiles that I always question, of his off-the-cuff obscurities that don't quite convey over the phone. Like a candy from childhood that locks your jaws in immediate recollection, there he was waiting for me when I turned the corner...all of him, all of the whole of him, and as predicted, every ounce of possible anxiety dissolved. I wanted to be nowhere else in the wide world than in a bathroom doorway of an airport, wrapped in his arms.
He eventually was able to pry me from his neck in order to retrieve my circulating suitcase. After leaving the airport, we dined on Italian, we drove back to his temporary dwelling, we forgot about everything beyond our four walls.
Saturday was busy for both of us - he with an unexpected work obligation, and I with some collegiate business. By early afternoon we were finished with worldly distractions and able to get back to a vegetative state of doing what we do best together - nothing. Later we were off to dinner again and a movie that I won't suggest [Vantage Point]. Following the film and an unexpected run-in with a friend of his, we headed "home". Having already exhausted my still recovering body, I curled up next to him, cheek planted against his chest and blissfully fell asleep.
Sunday was as Sunday's should be. Some couples define "their thing" as a hobby or a mutual interest. Ours is pure laziness on the sabbath characterized by unusually large breakfasts and laying in bed for numerous, slothful hours. Even being away, Sunday followed suit...sleeping in, ridiculous laughter, waffles, no make-up. It was perfect, perfect, perfect.
Now I'm home again, void of the key element of the place. He remains [there] and will be for a number of weeks still, and I find myself back at the start of another one I can begin striking off the calendar of time apart. Time is so temporary a thing that it passes with each breath, each blink of an eye, every second mounting into minutes, into hours and days, and soon enough he'll be back, too. I sometimes question whether or not I really am strong enough, and then 48 hours of my life with him resounds with the deafening truth of will. Without fail, I will pick off each day that stands between us with determination because some things are too good to be waywardly discarded [even when they're really hard].