Innumerable

Long distance relationships don't work.

Not that I've ever had one. Therefore, not by first hand knowledge. Until now - counting the three weeks away from RJ, that is.

I know it sounds laughable, but hear me out.

When I was eighteen, I had a summer fling with a lounge singer who was a bit older and whose voice and life experiences mesmerized me. I knew I was leaving for the States after summer was over, but I didn't tell him at first. Once he learned, he shunned me. Unrequited love is the best, no?

It felt romantic then, 6,000 miles away, oceans apart, as Richard Marx would croon, pining over the notion of a lover by the creek at my college, because the creek ran to the ocean, and the ocean would join the sea where he would hang out with his friends, drinking beer, mourning the loss of his wife and daughter.

Little did I knew I knew nothing about love.

A consultant that used to travel, leaving his family weekly, RJ knows with all weariness that being away from loved ones is hard. It can really do a number on a relationship. His last one didn't survive. Had it survived, I wouldn't be married to him right now.

When JD moved to FL, he was my best friend, the best friend I'd known, the one person who knew me the most. I knew the different time zones would mean communication wouldn't be the same. But, boy, did I underestimate what little three hours could do.

When I needed him, he wouldn't be there. And soon enough, he didn't need me.

I've gone to visit family in Asia without RJ before but for some reason, this year, it was REALLY hard. For the record, it is a 15-hour difference. So you add 3 hours to American time, and reverse day and night.

When I moved to the U.S. at age 16, I wrote to my parents weekly. I'd pour my heart out, record everything I'd witness and muse on. Those letters were my journal as a fresh immigrant in America, full of hope and dreams, giddy with all the new experiences and a rosy outlook on life in general.

Having just watched the movie Lady Hawk which had left in indelible mark on my young heart, I lamented that my parents and I, being in different time zones, were just like the protagonists in said film. One would come alive in daytime; the other, night. Your awake moments may overlap just so, but never long enough.

This year this long forgotten analogy is resurrected, applying to RJ and me. At least in my mind.

When you are not sharing the same space, the same time, the same space in time, the same time-space continuum, when you are not experiencing life in similar context, it is hard, it is damned hard, to relate, and to feel that the other person is relating to you. Try as you may, the connection is bound to be lost somehow.

For the first time ever, I understand why long distance relationships don't work. At least for me.

I met with my psychologist friend Kay (I forget what I called her before, so I'll stick with Kay for now) during my trip. A nomad all her life, never afraid to up and go to live in a new territory, she has recently bought a property (instead of constantly renting). Almost gasping, I congratulated her on "finally settling down". Later I would question why "settling down" is such a good idea. Just because convention says so?

I'd shared with her then that only about two years ago, after having lived where RJ and I have since 8 years ago, I had just started to feel this space felt like home. I can't tell you what and why, but I remember this distinct moment when I was finally at peace, and no longer fighting. I actually hadn't been sure I'd ever get there with this place.

And with all the sense of displacement brought on by travels, awakening SO much identity issues, boy, did I feel apprehensive about coming home.

I had been humming Somewhere in My Broken Heart by Billy Dean on the long way home. Sometimes my mind does that. Just picks out a song out of nowhere, dusts it off, and plays it on loop. I'm sure it's trying to tell me something.

The moment I was in RJ's arms again. No if's or but's about it. I was home.

I hadn't been able to remember RJ's face in the past two weeks or so. In my teens, when I would have a crush on someone, I wouldn't be able to recall his face. So that was a good thing. Some sort of cognitive disorder, I'm sure. Sensory overload, so my brain was somehow attempting to save me. Sure.

But my brain would afford me the memory of RJ's face as a younger person, that smile, that unique smile that some tend to interpret as a smirk (which he detests) ... and those cheeks that smile along with those eyes. That knowing smile that also passes as innocent. Who could resist?

I took a good look once again at RJ's rosy cheeks tonight. His glow, the glean in his keen shorn hair. I'm in a good place.