I gradulally rein in
my emotions, taking slow, even breaths as John tells me about his trip—the
flight over the Rockies, the turbulence over the prairies, the obnoxious jokes
bantered around in the cock-pit. I make the required noises, the “Uh-hums” and
the “Yeahs” and the “Ohs” that he wants to hear. The normalness of the
conversation is soothing. He goes places, I listen to his stories, and live my
life through his excitement. He longs for time with the kids, sitting at home,
and I long for the excitement of new places and unknown skies.
“I gotta go,” he
says after a few minutes more. “Meeting the crew for a debrief at seven.”
“Okay,” I say,
and the panic starts to rise again.
“I’ll call you
tomorrow if I get a chance, ‘kay?”
“Okay.”
“Love you,” he
says.
“Love you too…”
I reply, and then he hangs up.
I put the phone
on the cradle slowly, the familiar emptiness expanding within me. I’m a
thousand miles away in his hotel room, and I’m right here on this slowly disappearing
mound of laundry. I shouldn’t really miss him yet, he’s only been gone a few
hours, but I miss what he is to me. He’s safety and warmth, and someone to talk
to. He’s a raft in a windswept sea of insanity. He’s normal and happy and calm
and silly and all of the things that make life bearable. I miss that.
I’m still
staring at the phone when it rings again.
Have a great Monday!
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Brenda