I’ve had a drink or two.
And on my way back home, as the darkened silhouettes of tree tops shook against the gray dusk, between the dancing lights of oncoming cars, I thought. No, rather, I searched. For a feeling that was once so familiar to me, I must have taken it for granted.
It was a feeling that I must have had from the moment I first took your hand and which continued until when I last held you before you boarded that plane in Rome. It’s not the feeling that arises in moments of passion or special days or events. No, that’s an entirely different feeling in itself. I’m talking about what makes the boring and insignificant, tremendously meaningful and wonderful. It’s the feeling that accompanies the unremarkable moments, when we held hands as we walked to god knows where-it didn’t matter then and it doesn’t matter now. Where we were headed didn’t weigh any influence, no, it was the sense that I wasn’t headed there alone. It was the warmth next to me as I fell asleep and the wild leg or arm that laid across my chest as I woke in the morning.
I tried to find a word that might perfectly describe what I was searching for. Was it comfort, intimacy, companionship? Love was too powerful and wide a word to put to use here. I’ve come to settle on…fulfillment. To feel fulfilled even with the most humdrum parts of life.
It’s something that eludes me now.
Perhaps I’ve had a bit too much to drink.