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| Photo by Adam Mason. |
Somewhere between Springfield, Missouri and Portland,
Oregon, by way of the Grand Canyon, I started to fall in love. I didn’t know I
could miss him more than I already did, but after he put something sparkly on
my finger and went back to Oregon, I knew what he meant when he called me “home.”
So I go through my days, trying to be in the moment, and end my days relaxing in hot baths and
re-reading the words he sent in the mail. Like when he said “you can’t
write love stories like ours, and even if you could, I wouldn’t believe it if I
hadn’t lived it with you.” Or when he told me that he loves that I’m a strong,
independent woman, but it never changes the fact that he desperately wants to
take care of me.
He lets me talk a big game and “I am woman, hear me roar,”
and still sits silently on the phone with me through the tears when I can’t
handle being 2,000 miles apart for one more second—never pointing out the
seeming incongruity in my words and actions.
I’ve settled deep into that curious place of fullness of
joy, comingled with earnest sadness; the place where my heart is bursting
with love, and longing all together in every beat; where home is a person, and
I just know we’re meant to be.
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