Canopy
...I miss you more than I missed you before / And now where I'll find comfort, God knows... (Randy VanWarmer, Just When I Needed You Most)
Before I agreed to this so-called commuter marriage, I did the math. I counted the 1,400 miles of distance between Central Oklahoma and Northeast California and I researched the best options for weekend adventures based on availability of direct flights.
I thoughtfully counted the days between planned visits and adventures, doing my best to ensure we’d never go more than six weeks without seeing each other. I even convinced myself it would be fun.
Robert left in late September, while the treetops were still green. Within weeks, every leaf on our venerable American Elm turned maize yellow, and I was sad he wasn’t here to see it. Then one night the wind blew hard and shook them all to the ground, taking all the magic in a single sweep. For the next few months, I looked up and saw claws against a ghostly winter world. To most, it was just branches, but to me, our beloved tree had grown angry, casting a pall as it raked against the sky.
Finally, in late January, I realized that the day Robert moved away, we unknowingly stepped out from beneath the canopy we had lived under for nearly 23 years. Turns out, we formed a shelter for each other, a holy space carved out of the world. It’s terrible that we mistook the presence of God for the sky.
This is the fifth essay in my series, Memoir of a Commuter Marriage, about love, aging, and what endures. The series is for paid subscribers. The rest of my posts, including the Generation X Newsletter, will remain free.