Departure

I pushed the storm door open and leaned my back into the sun-warmed glass to make a passage for him and his suitcase.

The afternoon sun felt hot, but cleansing, the way the sting of a too-hot shower can revive your well-being.

He already had scooped each of our three children into giant bear hugs and kissed their cheeks. They had said good-bye and scampered off to select a video to watch before dinner.

Now it was my turn. I hugged him the way I do when I don't feel like being strong and optimistic -- flat-footed, my arms under his, shoulders wedged in his armpits, head against the prickly patches on his flight suit.

It's only nine days, I told myself as he pulled onto our street and headed away. That amount is less a burden and more a benefit, really. There's just enough time to long for each other, followed by a quick reunion just in time for our anniversary and Liliana's dance recital.

Still, I thought, he won't be here for Calvin's kindergarten orientation later this week. I felt bad about that and it occured to me that this life is a string of moments for which we are alternately together or apart. I can't say how the kids will remember them -- mostly the apart ones, or mostly the together ones. I hope it's the latter.

At any rate, when we set out in marriage, we did so with hopes of spending the rest of our days together. Now we've found ourselves spending quite a few apart.

I returned to the kitchen to fetch the recycling and as I ferried the wastebasket to the curb, I became aware of my legs alternately stepping forward, stretching the fabric of my skirt with each vapid movement. I felt my arms rising and turning capably to release empty yogurt tubs and beer bottles into the bright blue barrel at the curb.

Now I'll make dinner, I thought, and shortly thereafter I'll put the kids to bed. I'll finish the last chapter of "The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe" -- the book he's been reading to them every night lately. I hope they won't mind if the voices sound a little different tonight.