waiting for confirmation that my husband’s plane has finally landed in Dallas. He and his companions must wait there in the airport all night for the final leg of their trip tomorrow morning.
I’ve got Turner Classic Movies on, “Shakespeare in Love”. The poetry is running through the background of my mind. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” ~ an ironic line, in view of the snow that kept my own Romeo away an extra two nights.
We will be married forty years this summer. Forty years. Such a weighty number. And yet it feels like a flip book that one runs the thumb over, flipping the pages to make the stop-action drawings move past like a cartoon. The pages fly past, just like these years have.
I’m blessed to have a husband who cherishes me. He wants to come home to me. And me? I couldn’t anticipate his homecoming more than a twenty-year old would.
When I spoke to him on the phone, he sounded exhausted. He told me to go on to bed. It’s the last night (God willing!). He should be here tomorrow afternoon.
And so I will go about the house turning off the lights, locking doors, saying goodnight to the dogs; there will be the nightly routines of flossing and brushing and turning back the covers. For the last time alone.
The page turns.