It takes a lot of courage to wait. To believe, that somewhere on the co-ordinates of the map, a place that I don’t know, you’re breathing, I hope. It’s not just patience, waiting also involves a part of me to be madly in love with you. A part that sometimes, begs to die. But I persist.
I long to tell you about my evenings. The way the sun impatiently kisses the pink leaves of the Bougainvillea, the chirping of the two Robins, the stray cat that slyly walks into the front yard. How the four odd chickens are always busy scratching the Earth, searching for food and the sleepy dog that wags his tail when I pass him. I would love to write about them… but I’d rather have you here, with me, to experience them.
You didn’t make any promises, you looked me in the eye and told me you would be back. I wait for your letters, your beautiful writing, stained in the familiar blue of the ink. But they almost never reach me.
I will write to you on postcards, on the back of used papers. I will write to you on photos on every paper I find… I will write to you…
But, I will keep my letters short, for I want to save my stories… to enact them when you’re here. I will wait patiently, to hear stories of your great journey across desserts, oceans and islands. Stories of men, women and animals from foreign lands. Stories of the tempest and the time where the winds decided to abandon you.
I shall wait.. today, tonight and tomorrow.