Last week, I had to drop Jon off at the airport. He’ll be gone for most of November. I don’t mind being alone for a few weeks, but the moments ticking down to separation are always bittersweet to me. During the drive to the airport, he asked, “What are you thinking?”
I said, “I can’t believe it’s been two years already.”
“Two years of what?”
“Two years of everything. Us. Life.”
There’s a saying from The Happiness Project that I try to always remember: The days are long, the years are short.
Two years. Time flies.
Maybe it’s the arrival of fall itself that makes me feel nostalgic. Everything slips away, though rarely does anything want to. Summer delayed its departure long into October. During one of those final, warm weekends, we flew down to Beaver Lake to spend the day with friends. It was a lazy afternoon on the water.
We skiied. We swam. We ate two meals and departed at dusk. Jerry and Melinda stood at the edge of the runway, waving. We waved back, and then rose above them and drifted away.
We flew low, slow over the Ozarks. The trees turned purple as if in protest before finally darkening. Rivers flashed silver beneath us. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. It was a good day, it was a good day, it was a good day.