It's about that time again. Yes, we're a week and one day into my separation from Jesse, and no, the stagnant heated arms of the obliterating humidity aren't replacing Jesse's as I fall asleep. It happens this way. There's much to do, but my mind wanders like it sees a bright, shiny object to the west, and that would be my husband. So I drift into silences sometimes, staring out a window like I'm in a Sofia Coppola movie - pensive muteness, great soundtrack - and I think about him. We'll be together soon, but it's kind of one of those recurring and familiar feelings when he's gone away. It's not horrible, but I find myself sighing a lot.
The swell part is that he's there when I reach out for him - not physically, of course, but somewhere there. Invisible lines stretching until our voices or words connect. He's always there.
