Coming Home
“Bacon.”
“That’s it? Bacon?,” I asked, feeling slightly miffed that a pork product was my husband’s greatest desire after a long absence from home.
“Well, burgers. Ooh, and avocados, get avocados! And Jalapeno Cheetos. And cheese, ahhh, I’ve missed cheese.”
Food porn. Duh. Our first attempt at intimacy began this way too. Who says romance is dead?
The actual homecoming proved there was more on my husband’s mind than bacon, but his first bite in to a bacon infused beef burger chased by a mug full of beer almost brought him to tears. It was obscene what he did to that burger.
Sheer joy at consuming. I missed that about him. There are so many things I missed while he was away. And some I thought I’d miss, but didn’t. I have them all back now, and that, in and of itself, is an adjustment.
The homecoming wasn’t what I expected. My repeatedly imagined reunion involved me in a gorgeous sundress, hair perfect, breeze blowing, time slowing as I ran across the parking lot to throw myself in to my husband’s arms. I did that last part, but it was during a hurricane, and I scrapped the dress for jeans and a tank top, and my hair ended up…errr…less than perfect. But the moment of impact…wow.
Beyond that initial moment, I’m not sure what I expected. Everyone talks about “reintegration” and the “transition period,” but from the second I hit his arms, he was my husband again. Different? Yes, in some ways, but I would say the same for myself. Needing to unwind? Absolutely, sleeping on a cot with minimal food in crazy heat while working 24–7 will do that to you. Unsure of our routine? Ummm…the man left eighteen hours after we moved in to our new house. He doesn’t even know where his clothes are.
But we aren’t strangers. Having him back feels like I just woke from one incredibly long sleep. Somehow, his return collapsed the days we spent apart in to a mere chapter, and I’ve now turned the page.
I’ve adjusted to his schedule, waking with his alarm instead of my own, condensing my work in to an eight hour span instead of the whenever-I-felt-like-it schedule I’ve been accustomed to. We work out, we play with the pups, we have sexy time, we review finances, we eat dinner, we enjoy shower beers, we plan vacations we’re never sure we’re going to be approved to take, we unpack…slowly…the conversations we need to have, we live.
We are not the same. We are older now, more seasoned, more legit. We know things. We’ve seen things, and, as I predicted, we can’t unsee them. But it’s not just what we’ve seen in the world that we’re adjusting to. It’s what we’ve seen in each other. The good, the bad, the sleep deprived, the hungry, the dirty, the lonely, the angry, the fearful, the grateful, the faithful.
After a week of erratic napping, puppy piles, bourbon and cigars, seven loads of laundry, and marveling that “coming home” requires only an eight-hour absence, we are closing in on “normal.” I chuckle at that word, though, because little of the life we live is “normal,” and it will continue to get less so, not more so, at least for the foreseeable future. But WE, he and I, are coming home to one another.
We are finding our way back. And forward.
For now, I’m just happy I know when to expect him. So are the puppies. I can breathe again. And I’m cooking burgers on the grill tonight. With bacon.
