Sometimes, on the spur of the moment, I can really freak me out. Like week before last, when Martha went to Kansas City for two days for business meetings.
She had a late flight out at eight p.m., so at six she was ready to leave and said her goodbyes. She patted my head and said, "Good boy!", gave each of the dogs a big loving kiss, and then pulled her carry-on bag-on-wheels to the front door. “God, how little she looks,” I thought for the ten-millionth time since we met in February 1974. And that’s when I freaked me out.
“What if that was the last time I will ever see her again?” I thought not two minutes after she was gone, the tears starting to roll down my cheeks. I wondered, “What would life be like without her?” Martha is the one who makes this house a home, the one whose spirit has made this place alive for thirty-four years. How could she suddenly not be here anymore?
Yes, she has her faults just like everyone. But there is only one that I have not adjusted to: Martha is a reader of "romance" novels.
I jest, but the mind-picture of her walking away with her baggage is still as strong as it was two weeks ago. It isn’t a foreboding glimpse into the future or anything psychic; rather, it is a reminder of how much I love and care for her. How much I want to hold and hug her.
How much I want her to be here with me until death do us part.