Letter: It’s So Good to Be Home

She watched him from afar. From a long, long way away, day after day, week after week, month after month, she watched him.

She watched him struggle up the mountains. Mile after often tortuous mile as he wandered, she wondered at his purpose. She saw the pain in his eyes. She saw him often stop, having found a log alongside the trail upon which to briefly rest, and she wished she could be there and he could lean against her.

And they’d look into each other’s eyes and smile.

But he was a long, long way away.

After hours upon hours of climbing, when he would crest the ridge, he would sit exhausted at the very top, and she wanted to have him put his arm around her as they would then sit so very close together, exhilarated at the sight of the snow capped mountain across the valley, it’s white glaciers soaring high, high into the slowly darkening sky, finally just the very peak turning pink as the sun settled behind them.

All of what they would see there would command a silence, reverential and romantic.

For they would be together.

But he sat alone.

As she did, so far, far away.

That long, long summer came and went, the seasons changed, days grew shorter, the nights longer and cooler. Leaves loosened their grip and fell, carpeting the ground with nature’s palette, purplish red and crimson, golden bronze and yellow, brilliant scarlet and russet, as if a painter had splashed against the canvas all colors he had available.

It would be beautiful she thought if, hand in hand, they could stroll among the leaves, laughing at whatever they shared from their day, scuffing at the leaves at their feet.

But he was far, far away.

One night, as the rain beat a staccato against the window, she sent him a message.

A simple message. She wished him a good night. And added his name.

That’s all.

And he answered.