Relative Something

I have survived the first week of living alone. My wife left for Boston a week ago Friday night. The grand plan of staying connected through Face Time on our brand new anniversary iPads has been altered for now, as Cyndie decided to leave hers with her mother in town here. Cyndie was told she would get an iPad when she arrived for work. Unfortunately, the one she got didn’t include the camera feature. Isn’t it funny how things like that work out?

It wouldn’t have mattered much, anyway. She as been working nonstop everyday, into the late evenings, with barely a chance for a bathroom break, let alone meals. Talking to your husband, or other family and friends, or even shopping for groceries and toilet paper for the new apartment, are luxuries that are below the essentials of sleep and just breathing to make it to the next scheduled meeting. Right now, between the two of us, I have the much easier burden of adjusting to our separation.

Life at the empty house in Eden Prairie is pretty calm. I have noticed a common theme of songs running through my head all week…

“So how are things goin’, in the small dark movie of your life…” (Greg Brown, “Small Dark Movie” from Further In)

“Every time I think of you, I always catch my breath…” (John Waite, “Missing You” from No Brakes)

“And when you’re gone, I can run through the house screaming…” (Michael Johnson, “Bluer Than Blue” from The Michael Johnson Album)

“I’ll fold the laundry like I want to, I might not even fold it, I might just wad it up and stick it in the back, happy, happy, happy, by myself…” (Greg Brown, “Just By Myself” from The Live One)

“You don’t know what you’ve got, till it’s gone…” (Joni Mitchell, “Big Yellow Taxi” from Ladies of the Canyon)

And from my perennial favorite, and oft quoted, Bruce Cockburn, “Don’t Feel Your Touch” from Big Circumstance

Infant of a newborn moon pushing up its glistening dome
I kiss these departing companions – take the next step alone
I just said goodnight to the closest thing I have to home
Oh – and the night grows sharp and hollow
As a junkie’s craving vein
And I don’t feel your touch, again.

To be held in the heart of a friend is to be a king
But the magic of a lover’s touch is what makes my spirit sing
When you’re caught up in this longing all the beauties of the earth don’t mean a thing
Oh – and the night grows clear and empty
As a lake of acid rain
And I don’t feel your touch, again.

The last light of day crept away like a drunkard after gin
A hint of chanted prayer now whispers from the fresh night wind
To this shattered heart and soul held together by habit and skin
And this half-gnawed bone of apprehension
Buried in my brain
As I don’t feel your touch, again.

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