Happy Birthday Moz


It is Moz’s birthday today, and as a birthday present I am posting this post that I wrote while he was away for two weeks in Fiji. (Yes, I asked him first).

Happy Birthday Moz! It’s more than wonderful to have you back home again.

Moz has now been away for a week and a half. And because of the kind of person he is, (and, as it turns out, the difficulties with the internet) we have not had any contact for that week and a half. And I miss him.

I miss his solidness, his big bear hugs, his kisses. I miss being able to kiss the top of his head as I walk past his desk. I miss the sound of his breathing (ok, snoring) at night. His warmth. The brush of a hand on my shoulder as he walks past.

I miss the way he reflects me back to me, so that I know if I’m tired, or making too much of a situation, or panicking, or just totally in the right space doing what I should be doing.

I miss the singing, each random song morphing into a new one in a way that I just cannot accomplish. The new words to old tunes. The random changes of key.

I miss him turning the radio on, or playing the piano, or hearing him downstairs singing along to his guitar.

I miss the conversation. The long philosophical discussions in the mornings. The debrief at the end of the day during our long walks. The quick-witted sense of humour and the way he makes me laugh.

I miss the cup of coffee he brings down to me in bed in the morning. I’m spoiled I know, but I miss it.

I miss his problem solving, his practicality. I miss being able to point others in his direction knowing that he’ll take care of them too.

I miss having someone else to help make decisions – even simple decisions about whether we will make a fire right now, or leave it until later. Or what we will have for dinner and whether it’s ok to have take-away again.

I miss our date nights – watching something together on TV and then playing a game of crib or scrabble. I’ll even be happy the first few times he beats me when he gets back, just because it will be so good to have him here.

I miss saying, “Good night” and him saying “Bedtime? I guess it is.”

He’s not dead, he’s just away and uncontactable. And he’s so much a part of my life that there’s a huge hole when he’s not there.

I’m a strong, independent woman. I’m capable of living alone, I can make the fire, I can cook and wash up and clean and look after myself. I can but I don’t want to.

Thursday cannot come soon enough.

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