He is home (again).

He is home.

He was gone so long that his messy dresser top charms me.

So long that his snoring, softly snoring, snoring softly sent me to sleep not from it.

So long that his whistling is again, as it was two decades before, a joyful underscore of our days and nights together, not a shrill reminder that long marriages play host to annoying habits.

He is home.

He was gone so long that his eyes became moist with emotion when I read aloud from Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking:

I did not always think he was right nor did he always think I was right but we were each the person the other trusted. There was no separation between our investments or interests in any given situation.

So long that, although his eyes were closing, surely closing, yes, they were closing, he stole glances at me as I read beside him.

So long that neither of us could remember a single thing about the other that was less than perfect.

It was perfect.

He is home.

He was gone, but now he is home.

(This entry first appeared 11.06.2005.)