Stubborn

The lights that were reflecting off my rear view mirror suddenly disappear. The car has turned off into a lane, and I am all alone again, driving along this road that I so often take. The trees are an emerald canopy over my head and soothe the jolts of the rather rutted road.

As I head home, something is different. There will be no welcoming smile at the door, no dog with a wagging tail, no papers on the lounger, no coffee cup in the sink. I know I will see unwrinkled sheets on your side of the bed and your books neatly lined, untouched and unread. I know I will see your clothes in somewhat rows, lying in wait. Your miniature cars and bikes in their place, waiting to be fired up and your tortoise patiently waiting an eternity.

I insert the key in the door and it swings open. The smell of silence and longing pervades my otherwise calm house. I am alone, the walls tell me. And I sit down, fold my legs under me, get comfortable. And wait.

I hope this night brings you to me. Or at least that the dawn actually holds promise.

But more than all this, I hope that when you don’t come my way, I have the strength to pick up the pieces of my life, and get through yet another day.