In 2005, when I was ordered not to have any contact with you for three years, I was in shock all the way from the courtroom back to my bedroom — I was numb, like the numbness one would feel after losing a limb, I’m guessing. It was a respite granted by my brain in preparation for the hurt to come. I cried all night that night, I’m sure babbling mostly incoherently, your names the only comprehensible words I bawled.
Nearly seven years have passed now.
Missing you hurts as terribly as seeing you born was joyous, just on the other end of the spectrum. Yet I’ve decided to appreciate the pain, as I can experience that extremity over and over and it reminds me that you’re out there and that I’m alive.
While I haven’t been away across the sea, I have been on a great adventure. It’s been a trek to hell and back, of sorts. Although I did not discover the new world, did uncover a new me.
This suffering has been an investment in the jubilation I’ll feel upon our reunion.
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