I miss you. I’m sorry I haven’t gone outside to try to visit you lately, but it’s just not the same without you here everyday and it’s been rare to run into you. I’ve been getting to the office before you’re up. It reminds me of the mornings when I was very very young and I would hear the garage door closing and the Corolla puttering down the driveway and I’d cry myself back to sleep because I didn’t get to say goodbye to Mom before she left for work. The weatherman tells me that you’re laying down to rest as I sit in traffic on the way home, and I’m so tired after I’ve parked, I’m sorry I don’t spend those last few minutes with you when I have the chance. This month has been especially tough, our schedules have been so hard to line up.
I miss the way you feel in the morning coming through my window, gently pestering me with the birds on a Saturday to go to the park. I miss your company on my bike ride to the lake, bobbing in and out of the trees and warming the spots on my head where my helmet lets my musty head breathe. I miss you on the balcony, slowly inching your way towards me and eventually pushing me to get off my phone and out of my pajamas. Without you here I have to call AAA to get my battery jumped, I’m grateful for their service, but I just wish you were here instead. Coffee doesn’t even taste as good without you around, what am I pumping this caffeine into myself for? I don’t have you to run around with and burn off the energy. I can’t lay in the grass. I can’t dance on the sidewalk, my next door neighbor hasn’t shoveled his portion. I presume he misses you as well.
I miss your protection from the cold. I miss not worrying about gloves or humidifiers or lotion or bringing that second pair of wool socks to work. I like being able to throw on a t-shirt and let you take care of the rest. I miss open windows and light meals. We have to seal up the apartment and fight for our safety, doubling up on scarves around our necks and traction on our feet. I poured a bowl of lentils for a third day, doing the mental math of justifying my decision to live in a place you rarely visit this time of year.
We’ve arranged the plants so that they might see you as much as they can. I should probably do the same for myself instead of relying those golden supplemental capsules from the grocery store. I take them every day but they’re like a bandaid that has lost its stick. I know you’re not gone for good but I just wanted to tell you that I miss you.
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