ph: Rowena Waack
Every time I see him after a long time apart I am struck by how solid he is—how real and colourful.
I marvel at the texture of his hair, of being able to run my fingers through it and fluff up his bangs. The depth of his gentle, blue-grey eyes. The warmth of his flesh. The comforting smell of his body, his clothes. The clearness and closeness of his voice, unadulterated by Internet connections and unfiltered by the reception of cell phones. How tall he is, how big—how he wraps around me when I move to embrace him and dwarfs me, encloses me.
I hold his hands again, view his feet—those adorable feet, wrapped in dark socks. As I interlock my fingers with his, our palms meet like old friends. The contours of his face—I had forgotten how nuanced they were, how fine. These details had faded from my memory after countless video conversations, where all I could see were his head and shoulders, a simple frontal view. Where the image is grainy and the audio lags. But in reality there are no delays in the conversation, except when he struggles with a sound--his characteristic stutter.
In person, after months of being so far apart, his fullness of being and his very real presence are striking.
How glad it makes me.
