Nearly 6 months in Africa... and I miss you.

And I sit on my floor, alone, sweating in the concrete oven that is my home, balanced in some unsettling yoga pose, trying to quiet the mind that refuses to be silenced. I listen to the song that will always remind me of the he that has always been there, in so very many capacities, the times we had, the history there, the love lost and found and misplaced but never forgotten. The ways in which he's been right, the times he's been wrong, the me he's always known to my core, better than I of myself on occasion, the me he has understood in ways that only history and far too many drunken nights and levels of disclosure will allow. The love we’ve had that would never truly work in reality is in it’s current incarnation a mutual respect and a lifelong friendship. The times I've seen inside his soul when he gifted me the opportunity to see inside his vulnerability. It seems his turn has come in the series of moments dedicated to those that I miss, those that I've come to ache for.

Flashing through my mind like a random photo screensaver, the good times, the bad times, the wonderful casts of characters make their cameos and take their bows. The times and people of a different era remind me of who and what I've left behind. As my life is so disarmingly different here, it's easy to overlook the presence of those I carry with me. Sometimes it sneaks up on me, overtakes me, steals my breath and brings me to my knees in grief, causes me to bargain and barter with the powers that be that will not allow me just one Saturday morning in my mother's kitchen, talking over tea and nonsense, one Sunday afternoon dinner with section K, one more movie date with Karly. One more night out with him, in any city or country in the world, at any museum or bar or coffee shop, as we always seem to be able to translate the words we couldn't quite speak aloud through these venues.

These are things I long for, and come to terms with not having in stages, but the grass is always greener, right? The mourning also stems from the knowledge, the absolute certainty, that even if I were to have these things I wish for, they would never again be the same, as time passes I change irrevocably, for better or worse, through sickness and health, in this crazy commitment I've forsaken all others to undertake with myself. I know I will never again fit within that box; I will fail should I attempt to wrap myself in the skin I've shed and outgrown.

I hear from the he who has been here, who's slept in the very bed I've made for myself and truly knows the extent of the life I live in Seronga, and I hear the longing and confusion in his voice, I connect with the changes in the he he's become, and I fear for myself. His sorrow and resignation resonate with me, and yet I am inspired by his strength. I know in the depths of my soul that there's nothing different, nothing to change, but that doesn't stop me from missing it. The world I left behind. All of it together helps teach me acceptance, that elusive lesson I've been stalking all my life. I wrestle with the concept, on good days surrendering to it, on bad days shadow boxing the invisible opponent that I could see should I look in the mirror. In the end I decide to give it a rest, to dunk myself in the standing water in the tub and try my hand again tomorrow. I hope for sweet dreams, and perhaps a chance to see him and all the others there.