I might have mentioned before that when I first met my husband, we independently began writing in journals, letters to each other. We each needed a place where we could record our feelings from day to day without saying too much too soon. We wrote in these journals in secret, as a surprise for each other. Neither of us knew what the other was doing.
Here’s a letter I wrote Michael on 1-2-01, nine years ago. We had begun our relationship over the phone after spending one evening together after Thanksgiving 2000. I still feel every bit of what’s in this journal, and so much more.
You are just waking up, and I wish I were there. The letter I read this morning talked about the implications of what we are feeling. I think about that ALL the time. Is this it? Am I through dating? Is this the thing I’ve been waiting for, is this the man who will make it all make sense? Is it you? Are you the faceless guy of a million daydreams, the invisible person I turn to in the car when a good song comes on, imaginary hands on me late at night, stardust arms around me when I’m falling asleep?
Was it you all along? What a bonus! I’ve spent my whole life missing you, feeling like someone with a lover at war, or in space, or something… How lucky am I to find you now, when I’ve got my world cleaned up, clutter out of the way, ready for you to step back into the spot your ghost has occupied all along.
I love you, Michael.