Facebook tells me that it has been 44 minutes since you were last online. For the next two weeks, you will disappear into imagination.

What little I can imagine, of course. I have never sailed into fading light, or watched the shoreline disappear from sight. I can almost imagine the sway of the yacht through the waves; and how after a while it seems rather ordinary.

Back home, things are a little slower. Wilson, I think, is convinced that at any moment, I may walk out the door, never to be seen again. In his first year of life, he has experienced more people leaving than arriving and I think he is beginning to question that people ever do return.

The heat of the day hasn’t yet given way to the calm evening. I find this kind of weather particularly nostalgia-provoking and so, as I write, fragmented, random memories (mostly of you) float through my mind. Some return with a slightly sharper twinge than others. Like a second ago, a gentle breeze swirled momentarily through the room and I paused mid-sentence to indulge in the memory of walking hand-in-hand with you to Fat Cactus, last Friday.

I’ve decided to start this journal because I feel in some way as if I may contemplate all of life in your absence, and that this may turn out to be one of the most significant summers of my life. And so, I’m going to do my best to document it here.

Along with all the necessary whines and sulks that come with having your love sail away for 8 weeks.

My heartbeat has been very vocal about your leaving all day – even now it feels as if I’ve just come off running a marathon. But the rest of me has been in denial I think, and as I sit here, still for the first time today, and reflect on it all, I can feel the gap you’ve left behind in my home.

So quickly I’d settled into the routine of welcoming you home at the end of a day –.

In the last hour, I have spent every other second making mental notes of things to share with you; only to remind myself that you will only hear about them in two weeks when it will hardly matter that Wilson attempted to hunt a mosquito and dived straight into the side of a box.

Despite your ire at my constant phone checking, I must admit that scrolling through all our past messages and photos has been more comforting than I thought it would be. Something I am sure I will do countless times in the weeks to come.

But more than, I have scrolled through my own Facebook posts, from long before I had met you. Trying to remind myself of what life was like before you were here. What did I fill these evenings with? It’s not the same, of course. But still, those memories are so far away, I can barely pull them into the light of memory.

Even the night I met you is some distant, foggy thought with only vague twinklings of recall – that you hugged me, and wore a black jacket that you took off and put back on numerous times through the evening, and stared at me when you thought I may not notice, even though I can always feel your eyes on me.

Tuesday this week marked two months since I’d met you. 8 weeks.

When you return, you will have been long for the same amount of time that I’ve known you for as I write this.

Being with you has been effortless – neither of us trying too much, or thinking too hard. Truly effortless. In a way that nothing else has ever been.

With you, I feel an ease and lightness that I had forgotten I could have. It’s hard to put into words how close we have grown in the short time we’ve known each other. I’m sure, positive even, that to many people it must appear bizarre. It feels that way for me too.

In hindsight, I think it was precisely because I wasn’t trying with you that everything seemed to work. Wasn’t trying to be what I thought was more attractive. Wasn’t looking for anything other than what was in front of me.

And in this profound connection, I have made a best friend.

I love you. I could probably write the night away but I’ll stop here.

Sail safe.





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