Seven or Eight Days
When I was a little girl, say, 7, my mother had to spend a night in the hospital. That night I wore her nightgown to comfort myself and feel a physical connection despite the forced distance.
My husband left on a business trip this morning. Our first separation since March ‘09. In preparation I have been saving his sleep shirts in an attempt to feel not just warmth and comfort, but his warmth and comfort.
Even now I am in his clothes. I have to be.
The impact has hit harder than I anticipated. I had plans for occupying my time in his absence, but now any act beyond refilling my wine glass seems impossible. The absence of him is the absence of pleasure; joy; normalcy.
In the midst of packing he gave me the spare key to his luggage lock. It sits within arms reach by my bedside. I fantasize about him returning. I’ll hear the sound of the door and run to him. Kiss his temple. Cry on his shirt.
I will unlock his baggage and all will be well.
