Ok, so I've been gone for a week. I was in Montreal just yesterday. The week went by just right. Time did not stand still; it flowed with the steady progress, each moment newer than the next.
Francis met me at the airport, after two long delays. I did not lose my patience that day, but anticipated my own arrival. I had expected a scene, not so dramatic, but marked nonetheless. As he approached, I looked at the face I said good-bye to just three weeks prior. We kissed, and I made him do it twice, held hands and walked to the car. I was at a pause, quiet for the first few minutes, tired from the trip, overwhelmed and comfortable, at peace to be in his presence.
The first few hours passed in observation. I was in Montreal, not Orange County. I could not go about my own business in my hurried fashion, thinking three thousand things at once. I could only sit and watch him walk across the room in his house, adjust the reception of the TV, his glasses propped on his nose as he occassionaly turned to look at me. I sat in a semi-awkward position, not knowing which way to move or how. My voice was a mere whisper, not the usual loud squeak and goofy giggle. With no thought required, I finally found my place, facing him as he faced the TV, talking in my animated fashion, arm wrapped around his. And I knew I was home.
The first day was good, a soft breeze blew as we walked the half-empty streets of St. Catherine. I didn't care too much for the landmarks or the restaurants and coffee shops. I didn't care about how the sun shone and heated the otherwise chilly city. I only knew I was holding his hand and he was with me and there was nothing more that I needed. The four hours I spent alone were long. I did my walking, my own exploring, my initial spending, my people-watching, my coffee-drinking and chocolate indulgence. I did all this and waited, because there was no contentment in my belonging until I knew he was within arm's reach. And so everyday was like this: good to be on vacation, but better when we were together.
We did what we became accustomed to. We sat on the same side of the table no matter where we went. I always lean in a little closer, though there is no space between us, so that when the urge to kiss him comes, I don't waste a second. We like to sit on couches and talk about nothing, laugh about everything. Our humor is good and well-driven; it is the constant reassurance that we'll be fine under any cirucumstance. (That because
I love you now, I will love you no matter what.)
I miss the way he circles my knee with his finger while we watch movies at home. I ask him every night if he's sleepy and he always says, "No, I'm ok," but he'll yawn while his glasses begin to slip. I love the way he smiles and buries his face below where my collar bone and my shoulder meet. He smells like warm tea and cologne, warmer when we kiss. I love the way his arms naturally take my form. His hand finds mine no matter where we are and we refuse to let go even if walking hand-in-hand requires extra balance or the turn of the steering wheel needs a special skill.
He brought me to St. Joseph's. We sat in the pew and I held his hand as we prayed. And it was good. There is nothing more I will ask for. In him, I have everything I need. I know his worth, more clear to me now than it ever could have been if we had met sooner. He is my blessing.
Yes, Francis, I have loved before, but this time,
I love YOU.
And that makes all the difference.
