The last day
Today is the last full day my wife and I have together at home. Tomorrow we'll be getting up early and taking the train to Chicago, where I will see her off and she will catch her flight back to the UK from O'Hare.
It's been a lovely trip. We've done this a fair few times now. The hardest part isn't so much the goodbye or after the goodbye—though the loneliness that follows is its own kind of beast—but rather the time leading up to the goodbye.
I try to cherish each moment we have together. Every kiss, every laugh, every touch; every time the light hits her eyes, or when a lock of her hair falls from behind her ear.
It feels like I'm cataloging all the disparate parts of her presence so that I can construct a replica in her absence. But it's a futile effort with a hollow end result.
The good thing is that we finally have a home together that is just ours. Instead of having to rely on my own memory, I can look at the windchime she bought me for our anniversary, or the candles she so dutifully lit every time we relaxed in the living room. These things are a continuation of her presence—not a replacement of it.
I think I'll write a longer post sometime today or tomorrow about it all.