11/90, complaining about long distance

For the past five weeks, I have been using this holiday. I have been counting it down to understand the space between us, what these days mean, how we are still connected.
Next to my closet, I have been piling my pink sweaters, the bottles of wine we didn’t drink, the magazines I’ve saved for you. I was determined to use this time to convince you that I am still here; I’m still holding it together.

It is a habit of mine to view things as my penance. The weather, which is strategically keeping from you, is my punishment, a way of atoning for sins we couldn’t forget if we tried.

We’d given up this holiday anyway, offered it instead as a sacrifice to the wedding. We would each drop our dollars into the change jar, buying boutonnieres and programs instead of flowers or chocolates or see-through underwear or red, red, red.

When I told you the first time that I wouldn’t be visiting, there was a bit of a shrug in your voice, and I followed your lead. I became convinced that the bits dangling under my car would swirl and reconnect, like I was some Cinderella carried to you.

The snow died down, I changed my visit to the family. Dad could fix the car on Tuesday. We could steal some family time. I could hug my sister like I’m dying to. I could sit with my mom and plan the flowers I’ll carry when I walk toward you. We could be one step closer, and I could still sneak the weekend. In that moment, we felt like we had it all.

The "I'm sorry" in my dad’s voice when he told me that Tuesday would bring eight more inches, that I would have to wait for the weekend to come home, made me realize how much I’d needed it all. I tried to accept it immediately. I would still see my family, still work toward our wedding. I would see you sometime. You are still somewhere.

This is the part I’m still working on, the accepting and adapting, the changing of plans. Once, when my parents worked and I spent the days with my grandma, when I was three maybe, Dad arrived earlier than I was expecting. I heard his knock at the front door, behind which I’d just redecorated Barbie’s penthouse. I stood in the middle of her pink bedroom, holding her stiff plastic hand in mine, crying—not moving, just standing, my mouth open and my nose running shamelessly.

When I lose sight of you, when my days of seeing you drift of my Google calendar and pocket calendar and wedding planner, I am lost in the middle of a bedroom that seems to small for me.

Today, there are exactly six months left. I’ll pencil St. Louis into the next weekend and the next until it’s true. I’ll remind myself that in 180 days, we’ll be in the same bedroom and it will be too small and I will cry because it is perfect.