My man has left for his parents’ house. He will be staying there for the week, while he works the first third of his practicum with a construction company based in that particular town. He will be back here for the weekend. Then he will leave for Winnipeg, and do the same thing. Then he will come back. And then he will leave again, for who knows where. And then he will come back.
And if all goes well, and things work out, he will have a permanent job with this particular company for the next few years while he finishes his apprenticeship. If that goes well, he will become a Red Seal carpenter (if that’s how you say it) and will be able to work anywhere in Canada. (And then he will leave, and build things in various places, and I will stay, and I will sing.)
He walked out the door thirty minutes ago. (For those of you who can’t read between the lines: I miss him like you wouldn’t believe.)
So I’m sitting at his computer, eating applesauce, trying to decide if I’m going to follow him to his parents’ place for the afternoon (a forty-five-minute drive), and spend the next few hours with three raucous children, his very British parents, and his even more British grandmother (who will no doubt ask us very bluntly, but with the best of intentions, when we’re finally planning on getting married), and him.
It’s been an iffy weekend. The chances of my getting a job that will allow me to take time off for my prior commitments (a couple days in May, a week in June, possibly two weeks in August) are looking more and more slim as the days go by. I’ve not been sleeping well. He and I have been snapping at each other more often than not. I spent 90 minutes dancing last night (and I don’t dance), so my legs and feet are killing me (but my heart is thanking me!).
I’m tired and I’d really rather have a nap. But on the other hand, this applesauce, though it cheered me up considerably yesterday (I love applesauce), is simply not doing the trick, and spending Sunday afternoon on my own is more likely going to send me into a spiral of depression than give me any real rest. I have no idea whether spending the afternoon in a house which will possibly be very loud, and will certainly have two dogs in it (I don’t like dogs), will be much better, but there will at least be him …
Does that make up for everything else? Some days it does. Some days I wish he could read my mind. Some days I wish he would go far away (and then come back). But more often than not, as the years go by (four and a half last week), I wish I had him right beside me.
yeah yeah, I know, mushy crap, blah blah.
“You’d think people would have had enough of silly love songs.”
“I look around and see it isn’t so.”
“Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs … “
“Well what’s wrong with that, I’d like to know - ‘cause here I go again … “
Posts
