My Superhero left for a two-year assignment abroad, and after watching him leave (see Third Time’s Not A Charm from March 2021), I spent each day missing him and holding myself upright. If aside from his absence, every day brought a glow of sunshine and happiness, I still doubt I would have coped well with his departure. Of course, life isn’t that joyful or sunshiny. As we managed the thirteen-hour time difference, he could tell how much I missed him, even if both his dog and my dog were keeping me company. I knew I would miss him, and I was one-hundred percent correct.
Recognizing how heartbroken I felt, he smartly recommended I jump into one of my most favorite activities: a road trip. He suggests a five-state, two-day, sixteen-hundred-plus mile excursion from the home we thought we would share during this phase of our relationship to the house he bought to be his home when he needed a place to return. He suggested I return, dogs and all, and take the time I needed to miss him without caring about what I left behind on the Gulf Coast. As much as the idea appealed to me – getting away from our lonely house and visiting his home – I wasn’t mentally prepared for the journey (see Unwanted Travel from March 2022). Nevertheless, I hit the road, and cried most of the way.
I booked a hotel somewhere near the midway point, making it to some random town on Interstate 70 and crashing for the night. I don’t think I even stopped for an evening meal and instead concentrated on bedding down two dogs who lost interest in the eight hundred fifty miles about eight hundred miles ago. The next evening when I pull up alongside his house, I am relieved he convinced me to be here. I unload the pups and our belongings and curl up on my side of our bed and miss him just as much. I’m cozy and safe surrounded by familiarity, still just as lonely, but with different surroundings. The refrigerator is empty but my heart if refilling.
I didn’t bring much attire since space in the vehicle is limited due to the space allocated for my travel companions, and I didn’t have much in his home, so within a few days, laundry must begin. I break the hamper’s contents into two loads – darks and lights – and within a few hours, the clean clothes are replenished. Even in the best of times, I hate folding clothes, but I am free from responsibility here, so I have nothing that prevents me for prioritizing the task. I start with shirts and pants, working my way down in size to matching socks and underthings. In with my few delicate items, a pair of his left from his last visit to his home waited to be folded. It might be all I have of him to touch and hold, and I realize how grateful I am for pushing me here from there.