Since I left (for Chicago, in March) we've only shared a handful of days together--
5 days.
7 Days.
9 days.
14 days.
Here and there.
One handful in New York.
Then Chicago.
Another in Sacramento.
Back and forth.
There and back again.
But too few here, in our beloved "Winter Palace" as a whole family with Tati. We haven't had that in weeks.
He's back for 14 precious days before going away again (for his third annual August trip to Scotland, for the Edinburgh Fringe).
We are a love born of distance. When we first got together we did not live in the same place and we courted long-distance with letters and phone calls and FaceTime and texting. It never felt like a chore to communicate, for either of us. Remaining connected always felt natural and easy, in many ways pleasurable; and the love did thrive between Chicago and New York. We saw one another every three weeks or so (we learned that was the "max" pretty early on), learning that after the 21-day mark we became out of sync, forgot little things, became accustomed to solitude.
Then the pandemic. Hyper-closeness. We were thrown together in 750 square feet and as two introverts perfectly suited to one another? We thrived where many suffered (and never to be forgotten, many did not literally survive).
All of that is to say: this is hard.
And while I acknowledge that, in a way, we are victims of our collective artistic abundance, the price of a life in art, can be sacrifices like this.
So here is to soaking up these summer days in the glow of my love.
And then one more Scottish separation before a fall together.
Home stretch, my love.
Bon voyage.
Posts
