The way it goes

I had a love who, for the first few months of our relationship, always had a bottle of water for me when he picked me up in his car. Every opportunity he had to show me his love, he did, sometimes in big ways, but more often in little ways, like the water, or the flowers from his garden, placed in a vase on the table just for me. Ten thousand little things he gave, and those were the ones that meant the most.

He allowed me to weep and to break, and then to recover. He never wavered and never ran, he just kept loving me, and my heart opened in a way it never had before.

I once traveled to see him only for one night, and before I left the next day, he slipped a note into my bag that I would find when I returned home.

Thank You, it said. For making the trip to spend the evening with me. For sharing your warmth and laughter and intelligence and loving spirit. For giving me your magic, and bringing your nature to me.

He signed it, Your Man

But today, the man who wrote that note, and who taught me what it means to be loved, is only a few miles from my home, yet no where near my door. And part of me wonders, how could this have happened, and the other part of me thinks, this is just how it happens.