One could hope that after months of saying goodbye every week, it would get easier. In fact, it only gets harder. Every time he comes here I ask him to stay. Every time he goes. We are both worn, both holding on to whatever sanity we have. He doesn't do very well, working twelve hours each day, switching from night shifts to day shifts every week. Sometimes I think it's a blessing for him, all he does is sleep and work. I have more time to dwell, and no way to go anywhere to make it easier. We both want to be together, but we are both tied to the cities we live in now.

Some day we'll both leave and never return. We'll run away from the world and find a little peaceful slice of earth far away. He'll build his instruments, I'll play them and write and paint. We'll have a little pond for swimming, and a tree with a big swing on it. Just a little house, with a porch; rocking chairs creaking in the wind. A tasty garden in the back, some dogs curled up for an afternoon nap. Just someplace peaceful. And finally together again.

Right now we're both too afraid to be so bold, however. And so we continue to part each week. I follow him barefoot until he's out of sight, hoping he'll just turn around and never leave again. I am still hoping.