The sun goes down/the stars come out/And all that counts is here and now/My universe will never be the same/I’m glad you came (The Wanted)
We left the city on the night of holiday Monday, Mr. Spit and I. We walked to gate 54 at the airport, and he got on the plane to Toronto. I walked down to gate 50, and an hour later got on a flight to Victoria. A week at separate ends of the country. This is my life now.
I listen to the people I work with, those who are road warriors, all of us thrown into this city and the company of each other, away from our homes, and they away from their children.
I hear them talk about how they miss their children, I see father’s who go back to hotel rooms to read bed time stories on Skype. I see the photo’s from weekends, missing teeth, a piano recital. I go with them to pick out souvenirs, and I wish just one of them would buy a little boy a slingshot.
I see them separate from their children, and I see how hard it truly is.
They don’t know about Gabriel, about the woman who said good bye. I doubt they could fathom me, almost dying in a hospital bed, the woman who sat on her kitchen floor weeping, unable to cope. I doubt they could imagine the ugly wracking sobs, the snot and the tears, the hair dirty and greasy from lack of washing, my breasts still leaking milk.
They see none of my grief, none of my sorrow. Perhaps they wonder why a woman who loves children has none. Perhaps they never stop to ask about the wistfulness in my eye.
They away from their children and me carrying my son in my heart. I do not tell them of the life I thought I would have. I do not tell them of the time he was with me because I do not care to tell them of how he is gone.
Still: 4 years, 6 months and 13 days later, I am glad he came.
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