writing

Missing

I’m slightly more than halfway through my Maine escape. And just a few minutes ago I was nearly laid flat with the missing of my family. I’m not a sentimental person. I do not weep easily at sunsets. I know the value of alone time and I use it wisely. But. For a moment just now, I wanted nothing more than to be in my bed at home with my husband right here and the youngest right here and the middle over here and the oldest over there. It was a physical wanting, like a craving. It’s passed, but the aftereffects are still floating in the room and might descend at any moment. I might cry. I might pour a glass of wine and turn on aimless television to avoid feeling this way. Except… it’s my job to feel this way. I came to Maine to write and I have been writing enough that my fingers are sore, seriously in pain, but also, part of writing is feeling and feeling this is useful. It will bleed into my work and make it richer. And also, the greater the missing, the greater the joy upon return. I miss my husband’s smell. We really are just animals in human form, right? I miss my boys’ voices, even though part of why I had to come was so that there would be only one voice in my head–my own. I miss my cats. Especially the boy cat, who loves to snuggle on couches or in beds. It’s so good to miss the things I love. It’s a reminder: of fleetingness, of priorities, of how crucial a day can be. But also, I miss them.

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