My man is gone. For six months. That’s 24 weeks or 180 days. I think if I count down 180 days it won’t seem so bad. But when I think about all the things that happen in six month timeframes, how much will happen, be experienced and conspired, I am almost overwhelmed. Through none of it will he be there at the end of the day in my bed with me. It felt so big, quiet and lonely without his super loud deep breathing and sporadic shifting and sheet pulling. The worst is that I can’t call him; I’m at the mercy of whenever I can hear from him. I’m going bananas trying to remember all the stored up thoughts I have in my head that I want to tell him. Even then I can imagine I’ll be so overwhelmed with joy to hear he’s OK that I’ll forget anything in my brain and rely on the desire to jump through the phone line and attack him with hugs and kisses.

I’m trying to hold on to remembering what it feels like to rub his back with a T-shirt over it, what it feels like to have whiskers rub my cheek and to put my face into that perfectly-shaped crevice between his neck and shoulder.

I even had a dream that January had passed and it was already February. And I wasn’t even sad that I missed a month of my life, just that it meant I was closer to seeing him again. Yikes! Not carpe diem-ish at all of me! Please keep me on track with that, and don’t let me wallow in thoughts of days, weeks, months left. It will be a challenge for sure, but I bet I can still have a blast and make something awesome come out of every one of the next 180 days.