Teddy Bear Blues

I know what’s coming, so I try to feel it. Once he’s gone, I know I’ll cry without him, and I want to be with him here. I want him to know. The tears stain his shirt, and we prepare our hearts for the distance. The sky is silent, waiting.

I love you.

I wave, shut the door.

I sit, wait until I hear his truck pull away. The tears come even now as I remember. Slowly I stumble to my room, lay face-down on my exercise mat. Dad comes in to make sure I’m okay.

I hate it when he leaves.

But someday it won’t be like this. Someday I won’t have to physically tear myself away from him, to stand alone. I keep the teddy bear he gave me close. Even now, I can smell subtly the cologne he sprayed on my bear, ragged from sleeping with me night after night. Two sprays of cologne, because I want to smell all of our nostalgic sentimentality.

I miss you.

I haven’t left yet.

I know; that’s what is so horrible.

Even when I’m gone, you still have my love.

I’ll be okay. I’ll wake up and move forward, even if at times I have to grit my teeth and march forward. I will find my routine: praying and calling and reading together over some small digital medium.

And soon; less than six months soon, it won’t be like this anymore.

Semper Fidelis, my love.

Ad astra per aspera.