Driving into Oklahoma, I noticed how much I missed you. It's the craziest thing; I've made this trip I don't know how many times over the years now, and all of a sudden, this time, driving along these roads, under this sky, I missed you. And of course, this is not a surprise at all; in fact, I expected I might, and I know you'll understand what I mean. Reconnected, you live (again) in these spaces with me. My soul is awake to your presence once more, after so many years asleep. And once again, I find you in so many places, large and small, often unexpected. You live for me at a lonely intersection in Colby, Kansas; at the beach in Rincon, black dolphins swimming with us, so near we could have touched them; you live for me along a quiet, dusty mountain road in New Mexico, on our way home, lost and nearly out of gas; a campsite, crowded and green, the leaves of the white birches shimmering high in the sky above, and another, tan and gravelly, treeless—where they were, both forgotten; in Phillips Hall, the smell of turpentine thick in the air, your face, laughing and earnest; you live for me in the lazy, secret, hot summer days of a rundown apartment painted pink behind the trees; you live for me in a bed of pine needles along the banks of the river’s edge when we were teenagers; on my parents' back patio, the stars shining; outside my bedroom window, after work; in a purple plum tree still growing in front of the home we once shared; and in so many more places, I find you, and my heart is glad for you there. And this is all to say, simply, hello, I'm thinking of you, and I’m glad you’re here.
The whole of love: we are in it now, in this moment.