The Pain of Proximity

We drove past your new house today. Your new home, I should say. Not that it's new--or even much of a "home" in my eyes--but to you, it's the world.

Of course, we didn't actually see the house. I wouldn't know where to find it. We were merely within a few miles of wherever that house would be; I do know, after all, the city and approximate area in which you now dwell. Our car seemed to go ever so slowly on the highway while we meandered on through those few torturous miles; I thought I would go mad simply by breathing in the same air I'm sure you've breathed.

It was as if the sheer locality of your presence had produced a foul odor, potent even to my less-than-sensitive nose, nauseating to an infinite degree. Needless to say, it hurt me. Just a little.

But you, naturally, will never know how much pain you've caused. Oh, no, you'll never have any idea, not even a general estimate. We, however, will forever remember. Always. And that tiny piece of my heart--of my memory--that you stole away with you will ache for eternity, until one of two events occur: you come home, or I finally forgive you. I've yet to determine which is more probable.

Enjoy your world while it's still new enough to be considered wholesome and good. While the happiness and satisfaction last.

For your own sake, I hope your common sense returns long before that contentment runs dry. For all our sakes, I hope that wonderful day is soon.

Or even happens at all.