Small comforts


Last week was a strange week for me. Although I felt the pain of losing someone who meant a great deal to me, the experience put me back in touch (for a moment, literally) with someone who had once meant just as much to me. It was familiar and comfortable and easy. Funny how things like that can work; blessings often come out of pain.

One of the things I have always missed most about him is that when I cried, he would wipe my tears from my cheeks. I can remember times when despite my best efforts, for various reasons, I would find myself sitting and facing him with tears streaming down my face. He would wipe them away with his fingers and reassure me with a kiss and a warm, sweet hug while I lay my head on his shoulder. It was a small, comforting gesture that you’d think would be more common, but no one else has ever done that for me, and I have spent many hours wishing I could find another who would. Of all the things that we were and did and felt, that’s the one experience I’ve never been able to forget or replace. I’ve always carried that with me in my heart. I could use it now.

I have friends who reassure me with words, and I appreciate them; especially when their timing is perfect—like when Andy knew I needed to talk, and called me last night. But he’s far away, and can only offer words and ears. And though I trust him implicitly, and am learning to open up to him, there are things I still can’t say to him.

For some reason, all this has left me strangely unsettled; ominous; restless, even—almost like the looming storms that make their way slowly toward me tonight. Now, more than ever, I keenly feel that lack of “home.” Sometimes, I think I’ve found it for one fleeting moment; and then it’s gone. I can’t seem to find it again, no matter where I look.

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