My beautiful Algerian girls left today for home. We kissed each other good-bye and cried. None of us slept well last night. It is very likely we will never see each other again. As Nora and I say to each other often, “This is what it is to love someone: you miss them when they’re gone.”
The very kind friend who has taken care of my cat delivers my keys after breakfast. I serve him coffee. He talks rather often of a woman overseas I am sure he’s still very much in love with. The more he tells me about her, the more I don’t blame him.
The dog down the hall, a rescue from Mexico, barks incessantly.
I gather the mail and get a perfunctory letter from the mother of my sponsored child in India. They “pray for me”. I wonder (project) if that means she is thankful that I’m sending her cash, but otherwise, she doesn’t approve of my lifestyle?
This afternoon I get a cheeky invitation from a delicious scientist in New Guinea, inviting me to join him as he studies pitcher plants in the jungle. Can I join him later then, in Toulouse, France? Oh, we miss each other by a couple of months. He’s off to Puerto Rico by then. I will see him in Vancouver in June. Until then…
I must write this letter to Russia. It’s a commission I’ve received from the Frank Theatre. Letters to Russia about the persecution of the gay community. I pour vodka as a companion for the task. I try to remind whomever might be my reader, “This is what it is to love someone, you miss them when they’re gone.”
