So, being at that place and doing that thing we can’t talk about appears to have helped – as long as I’m there. Being busy was a boon and occupation, it seems, passes the time less painfully. It came crashing down somewhat when I came home to quiet, which it seems still surprises me. The silence and vacancy in the space casts a gloom across the usual euphoria of returning.
I was glad to see your face – mobile data consequences be damned – and hear your voice. The time is still too short and the lack of your physical presence intolerable, but I was glad to hear the excitement in your voice and the sparkle in your eyes. I can see the benefits of your confidence having returned and it suits you well. I knew it would and I will have the joy of being able to tell you so a thousand times on your return.
Ah, your return! The thing I’m counting down for, waiting for and holding on for. The thing I’m talking to myself about to overcome the tears that fell when I realised I had a wardrobe full of neatly ironed clothes or when I found the thinking cap hidden by your chair.
I can’t wait – but I will have to – to sink back into your embrace and be close to you again as I am in my sleep.
My letter is a response to this letter by the boy.