I’m getting under the covers and turning off the lights at the exact moment the person with whom I’ve shared a bed for 33 years is lifting into the sky and soaring over the ocean until together we’ll wake to find ourselves in different worlds.
He’s in Assisi & I’m in seat at a meditation retreat.
“Let there be space in your togetherness,” I once read in a spiritual text, and didn’t my late mother warn us against our early closeness. “You two spend too much time together.”
“The oak and the maple don’t grow in each other’s shade.”
I think that’s what the teaching said, but still we clung to one another for fear we would slip away like so many loves do.
And yet there is also the concern of rot, of not enough light and air, soil and water.
Which is how we find ourselves in Italy and the Berkshires, and in this spaciousness, may our fruit sweetly ripen.
Turns out I missed him which I expected I would, but it still felt good to feel it, like a confirmation of love, though it could just be habit, because the truth is, I haven’t been lonely in bed, not really.
Just one more day.
I’m worried I didn’t grow enough in his absence, didn’t soak it up enough, didn’t expand into it and myself. He is so rarely gone. I am always the one leaving.
After a cruise around the Island of Capri, he’s in the air again, while I’m cruising muddy roads, thinking I might have to park the car and walk up to the house soon like we did when the boys were young.