I crawl into bed beside him and the wave of emotion comes rushing back with the choking tearful feeling rising in my esophagus. I thought I’d worked through this already tonight, goodness.
He has my heart, I guess. Those expressive eyes (which I just realized are brown like mine…how had I not noted this detail?), the hands that shake when he’s hungry, the attentiveness with which he tackles a game or a project or a conversation, the sweetness of his listening, listening, listening to the analyzing, the ramblings, of his wife.
What will it feel like to not touch him, to not be with him in person, for months and months on end? I know military families do this all the time. This might be the only time we face it, I must count my blessings.
I worry too much, I am sure. But when I can miss his presence, the opportunity of deeper conversation, the simple intimacy of a hug, of two hands holding after just a day or two without it, a year apart feels unbelievable, unbearable.
His breathing is steady, even, with a little whistle on the inhale. I like his company, even when he’s just sleeping. I’ll miss you, baby. Tonight I miss you already.