Home Alone

I’m home alone, tonight.

And when I say I’m home alone, I mean my children are here, my husband is not.

And when I say my husband is not, I mean I’ve been keeping a secret, and that secret is that for some weeks now, my husband has been my husband again. Married. All the way through, once more.

In other words, our year and a bit apart has come to a close.

We’ve decided to stay together.

When my heart woke and began to glow for everything and everyone, it became apparent that the love between me and my very own body-mind-heart-soul was the only love I’d ever truly need. And so why choose a new man who could never be perfect. Why not choose the same old lovely one, who I could work with, grow with, be with, knowing I am fully loved and beautifully cared for. Imperfect, he is. Just like his wildly creative, highly emotional wife.

This feeling that the sun shines from my heart: it’s shown me that no man will ever be perfect, no relationship completely shiny. As I lay alone all those many nights (often loving the single life, often really quite lonely, actually, and aching for the parts of our old life that were no longer available to my children in quite the same way) I wondered if the shine I sometimes saw in my eyes meant that I was home. And if so, was I now solid enough within my new found self to go back to my other home?

Home: the place my babies wouldn’t miss their Dad.

Home: the place that held me, knew me, loved me.

Home. To the guy I’d forgotten I loved so dearly.

Until I remembered, again.

I’m home now.

I’m home now.