Wish You Were Here

January is quiet for the first week or so, as we’re all still self-reflecting and thinking about New Things, and maybe we take stock of the things we find nourishing and the stuff that is dreck, and we make lists about ways to be different. Be better. Bolder, maybe.

I wish you were here.

By now most of the Christmas items are packed back into their boxes, back in the once-a-year recesses under the stairs, but given the Now Times, I don’t mind the linger of the tinsel and all the pretty baubles around. This tree might stay in the stand for a while yet because it’s still pretty, and we need all the pretty we can get these days.

Normally, my family would return to their regular thrums of school and work life, and during the comings and the goings of my beloveds, I’d invite you over, because I’ve missed you, friend, and I probably haven’t seen you face in weeks and weeks, if not months… so after a week or so to myself to reset my house, and my life, I will want you here. Come have lunch, I’ll say. Or maybe a late breakfast? I haven’t seen your face since long before the holidays because you know how jammed schedules can get from November onwards, and our calendars have been so very full for weeks…

(Not anymore. My calendar has never been so naked and uninitiated. It’s never been so lean.)

We’ll kiss on both cheeks when you come inside from the cold and follow me up the stairs. I’ll tell you how much I love your boots, and you’ll tell me how you scored them for a song from someplace. There’s the crackle of the fire I lit this morning, and music wafting, but house is quiet and ready for all the conversations we’re about to have. Or for the ones still ongoing, since we’re never really finished. I love talking with you in real time.

It’s been a minute, huh… tell me how you are now? What’s good? Tell me while I crack these eggs, and dice tomatoes and green onions. I’ll make us something to eat – something my family’s mouths and diets don’t love or agree with, which has meant somehow, I never eat them anymore either… which is a sad thing to consider on it’s own, but it’s hard to make béchamel for one.

I’m glad you’re here to share.

I asked you in advance if you’re still off dairy, which you’re not, thank goodness, but I bought a sheep’s milk cheese… the Swiss has no lactose. There’s also a soup I made earlier if we decided that’s preferred, but it has no celery because I remember how you’re allergic. I remember everything.

And while you sit at my kitchen island, and tell me all about what’s happening with you these days, I feel us reconnect, with a click in the air… like magnets suddenly stuck fast. You nibble at a bowl of strawberries and tell me stories in exchange for mine, and we laaaaugh with our mouths so wide I see your gold tooth way in the back, and I’m doubled over with my hands holding my guts, and you nearly slide off your stool.

We always have a good time.

You tell me all about how you feel, because I asked, and we clasp hands sometimes when the talk is joyous and victorious, and we lean into each other beaming with smiles, and cackling, because we’re proud of one another, you and me, and we say we are. It’s good to say. It’s good to celebrate each other.

And when you tell me about something that has you worried, or about what’s felt hard lately, I’ll put my knife down and look at you while you speak because my attention is entirely yours right now, and I am not distracted. Tell me the tricky parts. Show me the mess.

I press a tissue into your hand, and tell you I understand. And though I rarely ever cry, today I dab at my eyes too, because sometimes emotions surprise us at the weirdest times. But that’s just how it goes when you tenderly reveal yourself to another.

And I am here for it. I’ve missed you, friend. It’s good to hear your voice inside my house again, and it’s my pleasure to delight you. I love to hear you laugh.

We’ll have bubbles to drink because the year is still New, and it’s almost noon anyway. Or just sparkling water if you’re dry now. I know how January goes. Pour some more coffee. Have a little more quiche while I top up your juice.

You fill my cup too.

And you can stay for hours, if you want, because I’ve got nothing but time for you this day, and I’ve missed you so. The gap in your smile. The dimple in your cheek. I love the way your hair looks now, by the way. I’ve missed your energy here. I’ll store it like a reserve of fat under my skin… something to smooth out all the sinew that’s been too close to the surface holding these bones together. I feel rounder again.

But, we cannot do this now. Not today, anyway, and I honestly don’t know when or if things ever be quite the same again. But, I do I love to hear you laugh wish you were here, friend. I really, really do. Whether you live across town, or across country or further. Even if you live across the street, I want you to know how much I miss you.

And I wish you were here.