rom a Distance
It’s easy to love you from a distance, easy to imagine you, easy to know how things would be.

But it is always easy to love from a distance. Everything, except the distance, is perfect. There are no bad habits, no negative elements, just the love, just the memories and imagined memories of you as perfect. From this distance, I don’t snore, I don’t grind my teeth, I don’t use up all the hot water, and I am always clean shaven. From this distance, I can see how perfect everything should be. I can see me waking up to fix some kind of breakfast before taking a shower, so early, trying hard not to wake you, since you still have an hour or more to sleep (one of the sole disadvantages of being a teacher). I can see your closed eyelid under my eye as I kiss your cheek, whispering “I love you” before I leave. I can see me driving to school, using the time on the way to get all my preschool frustrations out of my system, yelling obscenities at those people who think they can drive. I spend my days teaching, telling my students about how wonderful life can be, how amazing it is just to be alive with you. They smile and chuckle, but there is something deep inside them that knows that, not only am I right, but that I truly believe all I say, and they hope they have the same kind of happiness when they grow up. Several of them always want to eat lunch with me. We talk about their lives, their activities. I learn more than I want to know about roller blading and four-wheeling. They find out more than they want to know about being who they need to be.

After school, the driving is more pleasant than in the morning. There are fewer people out of work, you see, fewer vehicles on the road with incompetent drivers behind the wheels. I drive to your office, though, knowing I will get trapped in worse traffic later, but, for you, any inconvenience is a nothing, a trivial thought. Coming into your office, waving hello to secretaries and coworkers- all of them know me, all of them are very aware of our feelings for each other, all of them are envious- I knock on the door to your private office. You aren’t expecting me, though I come everyday. I barely hide the flowers I have for you behind my back as I enter. You smell them only a moment after seeing me smile. You race to me, ignoring the stacks of papers on your desk, the stacks on the floor, the crates of work in the corner. My arms, flowers held in my right hand, encircle you, and you hold me close, your lips on my neck and ears and your voice, soft, whispering how much you’ve missed me during the day, your hand behind me, closing the door as your secretary tries to peek in.

What goes on behind the door is better left for another time. You get a little more work done, then it is time to go. Dinner waits somewhere, it really doesn’t matter where since I’ll be eating with you. Well, yes, it does matter- not McDonald’s. Other than that one, it matters not. Dinner, then home. Maybe a movie, Star Wars, The Princess Bride, Batman , maybe some music and dancing in the living room, the slow seduction of syncopated rhythms to beach music or something Eighties. Maybe some crackers and cheese, a glass of wine, white or Riesling, and the sparkling in your eyes I’ve seen so often in my mind.

It’s so easy to love you from a distance. Now, to remove the distance.