April 11, 2011

My dearest,

The usual excuses apply: Non-stop work travel. Non-stop business meetings. Non-stop eating (and the extra pounds to show for it). And the incessant ringing in my head that there’s just one more thing I’ve to do, to complete, to hand in by a deadline (always urgent, always pressing). That’s non-stop too.

And the usual results would be me wallowing in a quagmire of stress and sleep-deprivation except for the past three years, I’ve had you to come home to. However bad the day is, I get to come home to you. To hug you, to brush our teeth together, taking our turns to spit into the washbasin and to grin gleefully at the mirror and at each other, making sure there’s no stray trace of toothpaste foam on our cheeks, to get in bed, say good night, and rest from a long, long day, with our hands cradled in each other.

Whenever the road got tough, used to be I wandered off into a lost world of my own. Now I just find my way home. To you. Three years, oh boy. Ain’t a long time (not yet), but it sure is something. It sure is something.

Yours, ever and always.