I was sitting on the bench in my living room, looking at the fireflies through the window, trying to make the best of my Husband being so far away. I was trying to be hopeful– flipping through the pages of a mediterranean cookbook in candlelight, planning a welcome home meal to celebrate his return. Trying really hard to fight the urge to cry because I’m not with him creating these new memories and experiencing all of these new experiences by his side. I am battling ailments as well. Small little reminders that life will be a constant battle. I clinch my fist trying not to raise it and curse the heavens for turning this world, this life, this body against me.
But then I hear a crash behind me. It’s my bookshelf lightening its load from its over-filled shelves of collected stories that have our stories attached to them. My phone pings across the room and it displays messages that confirm a love so great. Our old bedroom door screeches at the hinges, echoing through the long halls as the cat nuzzles her way inside. This afternoon’s mail sits in the foyer with letters from far away friends. There’s a bowl on the dining room table filled with dirt covered tomatoes freshly picked this morning.
I gave into the pressure behind my eyes and let the tears fall. Why do I feel the constant need to compare myself to everyone else? If the life they have received, all of the vacations, possessions and good karma are the things that they deserve, are my gifts– no matter how “small” they are– any less precious than theirs?
The gift of life is precious. This life that I have been given was made especially for me. I wipe my tears, stuff the book back into a nonexistent slot and message Joshua that I love and miss him. He tells me the same and I know that I am alright.
I am alright.