July 28, 2011

My dearest,

Things go wrong.

That’s true enough, certainly. And things go wrong all the time, when we least expect them to. Part of the pain comes from being unprepared, from denial, from the shock. We don’t want things to change; pain is when they don’t remain the same. And they never do. Things go wrong.

The past couple of weeks have been a bit of a blur for me, flying around from city to city, one overnight bag swapped for the other when I manage just enough time to stop over at home, give you a kiss, and then I have to head out again, the next taxi to the airport is waiting for me. I rarely read the news when trapped in the conveyor belt of business trips.

Not till I drop off the production line, apparently. (From completion, from exhaustion, does it matter?) Then I have some time to myself, to read, to catch up. And everything’s ill.

Norway. Hate blossoms into so many innocent lives lost. A tragedy on the scale of an entire nation and the rest of the world that weeps with them. Winehouse. The voice, the soul in pain, succumbing finally. More weeping, more waste. Another tragedy.

Everything’s ill, gone wrong.

Last flight of the month; three days up north and I am home again. The taxi driver is grumbling about the evening crawl but he is polite. I smile for the traffic jam cannot ruffle me. I am coming home, to my baby, to you. I see the other cars and vehicles that surround us, the faces inside, strained, sleepy, tired, laughing, hopeful. Human.

I am strained and sleepy and tired too. I press the doorbell and announce, “Pizza Hut Delivery!” I hear the sound of your footsteps hurrying over, the sound of your voice indignantly retorting, “Nobody’s home!” even as you unlock the door, then the gates, the bars between us, then we are in each other’s arms, a big bear hug, quick kisses, then we launch into parallel tirades about how awful our day has been, laughing all the same. I am home with you, and I am reminded to be hopeful always, that the days away will get easier or I will travel less for work in the future, that we will get to spend every evening driving home together as we usually do. That’s reasonable enough to ask, no?

We are only human, we only need this much.

The next morning you tell me you are feeling dizzy when we wake. I take you to the medical centre and the doctor says it’s an ear infection. Nothing a couple days of rest won’t cure. I take you home, see that you eat something and take your medicine and then it’s the bed for you. I take the day off, and am grateful to work for a company who allows me to, who is as human as we are. Not an inanimate agency but a company of fellow women and men, human like us, people who understand.

I do the laundry. I clean up. I get us lunch. I boil some barley water and serve it hot with a fresh squeeze of lime juice, the green wedges slowly turning yellow in the heat of the drink. You love this. What good fortune to be able to do this. What good fortune to be able to care for the ones we love.

Things go wrong. Tragedies happen. We get sick, get hurt, get injured. Illness and ill will threaten to do us in every single moment. And so they may. All the more reason to be thankful for the precious opportunities we have to be good to each other, to show we care, to love the way the word is meant to be used, as a verb, to love. To know of our good fortune and have the grace to share our bliss.

Every day is a good day. It has always been.

Yours, ever and always.