.
The steady pitter-patter of rain on our concrete patio takes me back to Washington. It’s been dark and gloomy today too, just like the winters there. The first notes of Joni Mitchell’s Both Sides Now carry from the speakers of our Amazon Alexa. “Joni Mitchell taught your cold English wife how to feel,” I whisper aloud as the slow ballad begins. A line from a movie that I typically say to you in a British accent when the timing is right.
.
No one laughs when I say it tonight.
.
The 75 lb, furry animal sleeping at my side perks up at my voice. Am I offering her a walk? A treat? A second dinner? I smile at her eagerness but say no more, so her ears lower and she lays back down, disappointed but content.
.
I know the feeling.
.
You’re not here to laugh at the dumb line from the cheesy movie I love. You’re not here to politely ask if you can turn on a sitcom instead of this slow, sad music. You’re not here to ask me to turn up the heat just one degree until we go to bed.
.
I’m disappointed, but content.
.
This is the life I’ve chosen after all. People like to remind military spouses of that. Strangers. Family who mean well. Other spouses. The a$$hole president.
.
“You knew what he signed up for,” were the words said to a recently widowed spouse.
.
And we know that. I know that. Of course I do.
.
I’ve done this before. Back in Washington. When the overcast skies and rain didn’t just roll in for a day and out again after you left, but lingered over me for weeks.
.
I’m good at this even.
.
I throw myself into work. I make plans and create distractions. I ask friends to hang out and I book plane tickets without hesitation. I make lists of things to read and eat and do. I’m an independent, goal oriented, sociable woman. There’s always a book I want to read, a TV show I want to watch, a gym I want to try, or a hike I want to conquer. I’m happy to do it with friends, but I thrive just as well doing it all alone.
.
But the thing about love? The good kind of love. That can’t-eat, can’t-sleep, reach-for-the-stars, over-the-fence, world-series-kind-of-love?
.
It’s always better with you. Only you.
.
And it’s never the big moments I miss. The trips and weekend getaways are certainly amazing. But as I sit here alone on in our living room on an eerily quiet weekday night, I’m so painfully aware of how it’s the little things.
.
It’s how I write in the window seat and you sit across the room, but our gazes lock repeatedly over my computer screen in between thoughts. Our shrieks of laughter at the same joke while watching Parks and Rec. How you always make a second (or even a third) egg to ensure the yolk on the egg you give me is never broken. When I try to get out of bed on a weekend morning and you pull me gently back to you.
.
“I knew what he signed up for.” I tell myself, when over a month has passed since I’ve felt your touch or smelled your face wash.
.
“I’m a strong, independent woman.” I whisper over Joni, as I look at your seat on the couch and hear the deafening absence of your presence.
.
“I enjoy my alone time and make lots of plans in between.” I reassure family and friends with a smile, while I cry tonight.
.
I’m disappointed you’re not here with me. But I’m still content. This life and love of ours is a better book than I could ever write. Each chapter of our story has made the next even better. Even the chapters we spend apart.
.
The music changes. How to Save a Life by The Fray reminding me I missed last week’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy. The dog shifts away from me into a deeper sleep. My stomach grumbles. The raindrops have slowed to inconsistent drips. My tears have done the same.
.
I thought the rain would never end when you left in Washington, and it did.
.
I thrived then and I’ll thrive now.
.
We You Me by Lee Coulter is closing out this writing playlist. I can’t help but smile as I write these final words knowing we’ll pick up right where we left off very soon.
.
“We’re headed to forever. We’re doing it together. It couldn’t get any better. We. Yeah, you and me.”
