I spent the 4th with my very best friend and her family. It was lovely and exciting and all those other feelings you have when you spend time with people you love.
I wander through these moments, smiling, laughing, but blindly imagining you standing next to me. Would you like my friends? Would they like you? How would it be to walk in the door with you on my arm instead of someone else?
I imagine making you dinner every time I cook. Do you remember cooking me breakfast? I thought it was romantic as hell that this man was standing in front of a stove scrambling eggs…for me. That memory makes me want to cook for you. I wonder if you’d like what I make?
It sounds so domesticated, which is strange since I’m not so domesticated. I cook, yes, but I’m not the stay-at-home-soccer-mom-car-pool kind of girl. I’m independent and strong-willed, but something makes me want to cook for you.
This is a weird letter. I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say except that holidays burn tiny holes in my heart because I’m waiting for that moment where we walk into a room together, all eyes turning, and everyone welcomes you into my life.
It’s like a dream, really, that places you into my reality or creates a space for me in yours. I go to sleep at night picturing that moment where we are once again together, and I wake up reaching for the you that visited in my dreams. They say this means I belong with you. I wonder if that’s true.
Until next time…