your face is a map of the world
I wrote this first bit last week, ploddingly stabbing the keypad of my Treo, but haven't gotten round to posting it until today.
It's been a hell of a week.
In my dreams last night, we were alone on a great big plane.
There was a shiver and a pop, and the cabin lost pressure in a terrifying rush. All the oxygen masks popped out of the ceiling - an orange forest of plastic cups and tubes filling the cabin.
In the midst of the screaming wind and flickering emergency lights and beastly shivering of the injured plane, you sat still and silent.
I had to do something. I kept pressing mask after mask to your face, into your hands. I must have tried dozens as the orange plastic morass around us tangled and twisted in the rush of disappearing air, catching on my arms and in my hair, clammy as they pressed against my skin.
You just locked your sad eyes to mine.
I remembered just before everything went black that I hadn't taken one myself.
So I'm a little unnerved by the turbulence on this plane I'm currently riding to see my sweet sister married off in the wilderness outside Boston. I have more than the typical amount of dream-to-conscious bleedover, and besides - I've slept so little in the past several days that everything is starting to feel a little stagey. Early call times, long prep days, longer wrap days, and sleepless, worrying nights have left me longing for that point when a quiet moment is just a quiet moment and not a silent one.
This is an enormous effort, keeping on top of everything that's happening to me, and to you. There's just so much to process.
Your reassurance is all I've got; your hands on my face are my very last line of defense against...well, pretty much everything.
I have never needed anything as much as I need what you and I have built together.
Today, waiting for your return...just don't leave me here.