I counted the other day--just to be certain.
I have a love of calendars. I love filling the dates,
I love crossing them out, I love watching them pass.
My mom has always kept a calendar in a kitchen drawer
and sometimes in January she would ask me to go through the old
calendar and fill significant dates into the new calendar.
My mom keeps track of appointments and birthdays and anniversaries so meticulously.
So I would flip through and soon find myself immersed in the days I could remember from
some twelve months ago...eight...five...
I don't have my own calendar, but I counted off of one anyways.
Monday--if my counting was correct--will mark one hundred and seven days
that Berkeley Boy has been in my life.
Seven of those days we've spent together.
And we've only spent four of them as a couple.
I think about this truth and I don't have very much to say.
But then I do.
I then have all the words I need--
I have all the words that I am much too fearful to voice--
I have words that I don't typically use, but think daily.
And then there are things that I am certain of.
Like when I say I feel like I couldn't have possibly met him in July.
Or when I respond with, "Well, yes it is possible to love someone in seven days."
Because it is fleetingly possible.
Possible. Yet fleetingly.
Should something have been different, the window's of opportunity would have closed and the blinds would have been drawn and that would have been that--no harm done or anything, and yet life would have been different.
For some reason--and, yes, I am a firm believer in coincidence and chance and fate; but, no, I have yet to categorize my relationship under any of these beliefs of mine--for some reason, he and I made the window. I don't know where or how or why, or that a window had even presented itself, but there it was and I stumbled through it, because going through windows seems to never be an easy task anyways, and I'm not very graceful to begin with.
But he's here. One hundred and...six?....days later.
He's here without really being here.
And I'm here, waiting.
Waiting on nothing, really. Because he's already arrived and
I wouldn't choose to wait for anyone else.
I wait to see him in some sense, yes,
but mostly I live knowing that he's living his own day as well.
I've learned that knowing that the person you love is happy and healthy and living amongst people and things that he or she loves must be enough for the now.
I can't change the miles. I can't ask him to stay.
But asking how his day was brings a quiet contentment to each of my own days.
They tend to pass slowly. At times the week will pick up speed and I will count the days until I see his face again.
Someone told me just the other day, "Well the time must be special, then. The time when you do see one another."
He said it so simply.
I remember feeling the chair as it supported my back. I rested into it and I smiled.
Yes, I nodded. It does, I agreed.
Those days are always too fast and I try not to cry when he goes. Because crying would grow to be unfair, I think.
It always begins in the morning.
I pace wherever I am.
My favorite part?
My favorite part is the moment before.
I always breathe the entire moment in.
I memorize it.
Anticipation is intoxicating and beautiful.
And then there he is.
The counting has ended for the day.
I know that by the end of his stay that a whole new countdown will begin,
but for several hours I get to stop the entire world.
My entire world.
I stop it entirely, and I get to study the person I love and learn about him and embrace him.
And I am learning so much.
About patience, and understanding, and trust, and joy, and selflessness.
Seven days has taught me so.
Seven days--or one hundred and seven--however the hell you want to count it.
It's been so impossibly unexpected and quick and simple.
But there's no other hand I like more,
there's no other person I'd give this time to,
there's no one else I want to share secrets with.
I have been so irrevocably inspired.
And God has poured a blessing--for how many more days, I don't quite know, but God's timing is perfect. And the window that I found had undrawn blinds and a welcoming room within.
I'll add the days to the calendar--I'll count them and keep them and life will be full even if he is absent from the room for now.