The flecks of gold in the centre of his green eyes. How when he wakes up, he reaches for me and somehow becomes the ideally shaped big spoon. Neck nuzzled to neck, fingers entangled, head to toe every linear inch lined up together, sealed as if we might press out all air and light and gaps and melt into one. One body that can’t possibly live in Maine and Vancouver at the same time.

…

Long distance marriage is not a term I grew up knowing. I’m still not convinced it’s really a thing. More like an inconvenient situation that you find yourself in, living bewilderedly apart even though you did the thing; you stood up there and DECLARED that you were joining your lives, pacific drops with atlantic droplets (since let’s be honest — it rains a lot more in Vancouver), forever changed, sealed with a ring and a kiss and a lobster for goodness sake. It’s one of those situations that gives you something to talk about — “how’s the visa thing going?” well-meaning souls inquire, often followed up with something mushy about lots of distance equalling increased fondness. Sure.

…

“Where are you in from?” the intuitive cashier inquired, before Jon could even open his mouth. How’d he know?

…

Sailing on Synchronicity, my home for so many years that still feels like a part of me… but she’s not quite Brio. The binoculars are in the wrong cupboard, the kettle has a different whistle, and everything is just a little bigger than I thought it was. She motors like a beast, but sails a bit like one too. Give ‘er 20+ knots and she’ll fly. Five and she just sort of wallows, shaking her head as if to laugh and say, “you really expect me to get up and go for this piddly little bit of wind??”. A challenge for a while, a game for a bit… and then I give (always me; Jon might try forever, but I hear the siren song of a trip finished, day accomplished, docking job completed and dinner ahead). Iron gennaker all the way.

…

It doesn’t take long to remember how to be a long-distance wife, though; morning texts, thoughtful status updates, lunch-break phone calls, small moments tucked away to be shared at night. Not too late at night, mind; the three hour time difference is always there, not to be forgotten. And of course there are small cracks. Forgetting who has the long-distance plan (that 30 seconds will cost $6, I’m sure). Over-bright eyes and tight smiles when the girls want to know how our visit went. Tears, but there are always tears. We’ve done this for so long that we have traditions. A handwritten goodbye note, a last day photograph, an airport update, the softest kisses just before we part. It’s hard. It’s really hard. We remind each other that it’s worth it; that we chose this path and are so lucky to have the life that we do, that we’ll go sailing again this January, and that one day we’ll look back and laugh at the memory of it all.
But until that day, it’s hard.

…

Jon left Vancouver yesterday. We wait, and we hope and pray every single day that soon this stage of life will be over.

#ThisTooShallPass.