Letter to My Husband

R. –

When I lie awake, alone and far from you in my hotel bed, I like to remember that morning I woke before you did. The sun was streaming, the morning breeze lightly fluttering your hair. Your hand was spread across my rounded belly, the tiny heartbeat of our yet unborn son thrumming beneath your open palm. I could have cried. I must have, because you awoke, smiled and kissed me. I could not let go. Your fingers rubbed lazy circles, a feathery touch that became harder and more insistent. My fingers clenched in your hair, pulling gently to pry your mouth from mine, easing your head to my breast. I thought I would melt, dissolving into your skin.

I can still remember the taste of your skin, a salty sweetness that makes me think of cashews. You laugh when I relate memories of you to food or drink. I cannot express it any other way. Your cashew skin nourishes me, your Guinness kiss makes me drunk, your smooth Scotched voice whispers me to sleep. I think of you and I am hungry. I make love to you and I am sated. I dream of you and I awake in the middle of the night with cravings in the pit of my stomach. You are the cool water I want to sip all my days, the bread I'll eat.

I think that our children somehow know how strong was the love that conceived them, how powerful my desire for you, that they absorbed some of what we felt through my blood when they lay curled inside. They are as strong and passionate as we are, always fierce in their love for each other and for us, which I admit, sometimes frightens me. Ada, who is so enthralled with you she crawls between us in bed like a feral cub, and in her impish childish way blocks my mouth from yours with her little hand; or Colin who shocks me at times with the strength and suddenness of his hugs and fervent whispers of "forever" breathed against my neck. I want to hold you as tightly, breath hot against your neck, my whisper of "forever" like a spell, an incantation that will bind us, will never let me leave your side again.

I miss you and the children terribly. I think I miss the farm as well, but you and it are so entwined in my mind. I realize it is you in the farm, standing in the middle of the field or astride your beloved Palaver, whistling at the cattle, that I truly miss. I close my eyes and can see the sun setting behind the hills, setting the gold in your hair afire. The air is moist here, but it only reminds me in stark contrast how hot and dry the summer makes the farmland, and the smell of red dust, sweat and dry hay on your skin. I feel the rain on me through my clothes and I am reminded of how your bronzed skin glistens fresh from a cool bath. I think I might die if I cannot run home to you today to see that rather than just spend the next few days and nights here alone, merely remembering it.

You make me sound foolish. I re-read my words and a part of me does not recognize the voice. What have you done to me? No matter, just continue to do so. I love you and I forget old hurts, stagnant bitterness, painful years I once believed were locked inside me forever. Who gave you the key, my Bluebeard? Now that you've unlocked me, throw away that key; I will never leave you again.

The sun is rising here and I have been writing all night. These few hours have been the happiest since I arrived. If I could so spend the remainder of my days and nights, remembering, it would make my stay here easier to bear. "Haply I think on thee..."

Write soon. Tell me you love me. Then tell me again. Tell me you cut your finger or scalded your arm because, distracted, thinking of me, you lost your mind for a moment. Tell me that you too spend your days thinking of me, remembering me; that hours pass and you realize you've spent them trying to decide the name for the colour of my eyes, the taste of my mouth. Tell me what you remember of our first night, our fifth, our twentieth, our thousandth. Tell me you wake up hard and panting from dreaming of me.

Tell me.

C.