THE PUBLIC SHELF
Open when we're far apart
Six time zones is a ridiculous amount of distance. I looked at a globe last night and you're practically underneath me. If I dug straight down I'd come out somewhere near your kitchen, which is a plan I'm keeping in my back pocket.
Here is what I do when I miss you, in case you need ideas.
I wear your gray hoodie, the one with the hole in the cuff, and I tell myself it still smells like you even though it mostly smells like me now. I make your terrible coffee, the one with too much cinnamon, and drink the whole thing out of loyalty. The cat sleeps on your side of the bed. She won't admit she misses you, but she's been very rude to me since you left, so I know.
The hard part isn't the big moments. It's the small ones. I see a dog in a raincoat and I have nobody to nudge. I hear a joke you'd love and it just sits there.
So I've started writing them down. There's a list on the fridge now. It's getting long. When you're home, I'm reading you every single one, and you have to laugh at all of them, even the bad ones.
Thirty one days. I'm counting. I'm not letting you near an airport for a while after that.
Sam
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