Yesterday was two years to the day (not date) since I flew south to bring back my bride(-groom). The preceding week had been a trial; I was premenstrual and completely distracted by our separation, and trying desperately to find a house for us to live in, while working and eating to maintain my steady weight-gain (peaking at 15kgs; ask me how!). The morning prior we had signed the lease on a dingy little place in Kingsland - although at the time, through hopeful and excited eyes, it looked anything but dingy; I could see us everywhere, and in every run-down little part of it - and after work had begun moving in my things with my excellent niece, Oscar, and my always helpful brother-in-law. Though rushed, things went smoothly... until the couch became wedged in the door, and in trying to force it through we accidentally hit a water-pipe, from which water spurted everywhere, much to the delight of Oscar, who danced in it like a child at a fire-hydrant in a New York heatwave. We were forced to turn off the water mains for the entire property, rendering my four sets of neighbours, whom I had not yet met, waterless during a time they were likely trying to cook and shower, and when I went to explain the situation, I discovered Oscar had already been up and made himself known...
That night I got my period, snapped at my Dad, and epilated myself a brazilian (having had no time to visit my waxer during the week, and thus earning myself honorary Viet Cong status for Outstanding Hardness and Resourcefulness) before crying myself to sleep on a bed of couch cushions in a corner of my old bedroom. I don't know when I've ever felt so displaced... except maybe for the first night I'd spent back at my parents', when I arrived home to find no-one had expected me and there were no free beds so I had to sleep on the couch in the dining-room, blanket-less, to the sounds of the dishwasher and Oscar's clear-conscience snores. The next afternoon my sister let me drive us home in her car after which I put her car-keys in my pocket, sparking a series of unfortunate events; her spending almost twenty-four hours searching before I discovered them when going through my bag in Wellington (we still laugh at the memory of my stricken face; I fear few people, and my beloved sister is one of them), and me only making my flight because of the kindness of a rule-breaking check-in attendant and the breakneck driving of my other beloved sister who came to my rescue and counselled me while I poured wine down my throat to calm myself down. I felt like anything that could go wrong would, and that it didn't bode well for Vincent and me.
As always, everything changed when I saw his face. I was still scared, and stressed, but I felt like everything was worth whatever might happen. We took three days driving up to Auckland, got back to our little place, and lived there for six months before moving here. In the two years, we haven't spent a night apart. It's my hope we never will.
One night this week when I couldn't sleep (and wasn't imagining summer), I lay awake looking at Vincent sleeping, and this song popped into my head. It's a strange and incredible thing to find songs you have listened to all your life, and dreamed about being possible, all of a sudden applying to you, and all because of one person; it's at once the most reassuring and the most terrifying thing. I'm not sure if you're supposed to feel it for anyone except your children; it doesn't seem conducive to long-term survival or societal adjustment or the greater progression of humanity. Maybe I have an extra duty to the world to help us all get closer to the goal because I've strayed from the system; if that's the case, I'm happy with that. More than happy, in fact. For two years, whatever happened, I've slept anchored. I think I may be the luckiest girl in the world.