And at the End

I have been traveling for ages, past rolling hills and green woods, house and office, skyscraper and river, through tunnels, over bridges, past hill and mountain. I have been struck through eye by the beauty of my path, bemused and hypnotized by the sights before me. A copse of trees pushed through a cornfield behind a constellation of fireflies. A square of sunlight grew large as I traveled under a mountain. Woods blued in the distance, obscured by the very air between us. My trip showed me the wonders of nature and of human nature, our construction sideby hers, each blending into the other. The towers of New York, the fields of Ohio, the namesake woods of Pennsylvania, far more of New Jersey than I ever thought I’d see, some sliver of West Virginia’s mountains, and part of Connecticut unspoilt by forced quaintness. Even my Indiana home has its sights, though it can take a practiced eye to extract them. My trek seemed shortened by the things I saw.
And at the end was you, and thus the destination eclipsed all the eyewide wonder of the voyage. Had the trip been longer and the beauty less, it would be foolish to count the time anything but well spent. You, my love, were a sight most needed, and our love itself the greatest thing to strike my eye. We are of a piece, one kind, and it is nothing but tragedy that we are far apart for long.

The denouement is that I returned, trying and failing not to let the beauties passing by in reverse be tarnished by an unwelcome trip that was as much homeleaving as homecoming. To be back among the familiar is a blessing terribly mixed. Know this, though, as I know you do; I will come to you again, and again, as much and as many times as I am capable. I need to be where you are, love, and I will work toward that with all of me.

I never fail. I will return.