Move

There was a lunar eclipse tonight but I couldn't see it because of the cloud cover. A lunar eclipse of a harvest moon that I glimpsed only infrequently during the drive. 

I arrived back here three hours ago.

Eve and Shelly drove with me the seven hours to PA to bring boxes and furniture to be stored at Eve's place there. It isn't the complete set, but its definitely a start. I feel so lucky to have loving and loyal friends who make such a sacrifice to help me.

As Shelly and I unloaded the boxes yesterday night, I looked at the self-made labels in black ink. "Blankets, black coat, book ends." Most things I packed into boxes earlier this month. I've missed the books the most. Empty bookshelves remind me of missing friends. I saw the box labeled, "String Theory, C.S. Lewis, Scientist biographies" and it gave me a pang. 

In the house, Eve cooked pasta, sausage, and sauteed vegetables. We ate, talked, and the night settled in around us. I thought about my text on String Theory. What if I needed it? The thought was ridiculous (when would I need String Theory?) but it wouldn't leave me alone. I needed to climb the hill to the carriage house, find the box and the book. At last, as the conversation lulled, I announced my intention, put on my shoes, and using my cell-phone flashlight, went outside. 

I felt a sense of urgency as I tore into the box. Here a biography of Oppenheimer;  there was L'Engle's "Two Part Invention" and a stack of C.S. Lewis. At last, "String Theory". As I lifted the book, I saw my copy of a Cosmology book. Maybe I needed that, too? I took it, tucked it under my arm. I shuffled through the other books. I should really bring some C.S. Lewis with me  wherever I go next. 

The stack in my arms became absurd. How could I possibly justify bringing these books back with me  in the truck after we'd made such an effort to bring these here? Maybe I should put Cosmology back? What had it taught me anyway? What would I be missing?
I thumbed through the pages of equations. In the center of the book, there was a small white card with writing on it. Notes or equations? No. Thin writing in ballpoint: "My Sjors. December 23, 2010".
My hands began to shake. My heart raced. I knew what this was. A snowy night in Paris. A long wait for the train at the Gare du Nord train station. When he arrived, ebulliant as ever, grabbing my frozen fingers in his and kissing me on the lips, I thought my heart would burst.
At the subway entrance, he pulled me into a photo booth, pulled me onto his lap, put in his coins, and we laughed from the sheer joy of being together again.
In those two small pictures there is a glimpse of all the hope and love and happiness two people could ever wish to have. Finding them here, after all these years when I thought they were gone forever. It feels like a gift. I can't get enough of them. I take them out, see his face. Wish I could step back into the photograph and into his arms again where I was meant to be.

3:38AM.  

Its dark outside. In the next room, Eve is asleep. I feel a love and longing for Sjors and, as it always does, this resonant ache echoes through my body, keeps me awake. I do what I always do when this happens: I pray for him. Please god keep him safe. You love him too. But the thought of him doesn't leave me and I wonder how he is. I see him in my mind, the man with the bright eyes and love, and I'm caught between the memory of his love and the recollection of his anger. If I saw him tomorrow, which man would I meet? Please, Sjors. Please still exist. Please come for me.