A Love Letter

Dear Hubs,

I miss you. I know I don't know you yet. Funny, isn't it? Well, maybe funny isn't the right word. Strange, perhaps? That you can miss someone you don't know. That I can....

I wonder what you'll think of me writing you a letter like this once I know you and you can read it. Will you find it endearing that I wrote to you? I hope so.

Missing you happens at random moments, my love. The other day, it happened when I rolled over first thing in the morning, my mind not yet fully awake, and expected to roll onto the soft skin of your chest, but found a flat, empty mattress instead. Sometimes missing you is more practical. It's in the rattle of my car engine, in my wishing you were there to listen to it and to take my car to the shop if need-be. And sometimes missing you is simply a longing that sits in my chest and drapes itself across moments that should be happy, but are only partly so, because you aren't there to share them with me.

I am well, love. I don't want you to worry, not that you could anyway. Most days, I am content with my life. I have been so blessed. I have some of the best friends in the whole wide world; someday you will meet them. And I have about as devoted a set of parents as you could find and sisters and brothers-in-law and nieces and nephews. And the whole clan is woven into the fiber of my being, such that I never feel entirely alone.

But, still, at unexpected moments, I miss you.

I miss the children we'll have, the way their features will tell family histories and stories, miss the way I'll see a more beautiful reflection of myself in your eyes ... because love does that you know, makes you feel prettier. I miss the way I'll love you, a way that'll make me stronger and braver and more vulnerable all at once. I think I even miss your mannerisms, the way they'll feel so familiar, the way I'll learn to read the subtle intonations of your voice, so that I'll know whether you are having a good day or a bad one as soon as you say hello. And some days, what I miss the most, is that you'll want to hear my stories, is that I'll tell them to you and know that you care. I have lots of stories, my handsome man.

I know our love won't be perfect. Judging by what I know of marriage, I imagine there will be days where you don't like me much at all, and days where you irritate the heck out of me. I know you'll have quirks that'll bug me. And I've lived with myself long enough to know I'll have my fair share of traits that'll bug you too. Maybe we'll say things we don't mean in fights. Maybe we'll say things we do ... and that'll be even worse. Maybe you'll leave your dishes in the sink, no matter how many times I ask you to put them in the dishwasher. Maybe you'll get completely exasperated at my passive refusal to keep my checkbook balanced. Maybe one of us will get sick. Maybe some days, you won't want my stories. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But, still, I miss you. And I wonder why -- if it was Adam who was made first and had to wander around the earth, naming animals while he waited for Eve -- why I feel like I'm wandering the earth, naming things, growing things, learning things, while I wait for you. If I am substance of your very own ribs, the strong cage that protects your heart, where are you? And why do you keep me waiting?

Maybe you don't. Maybe it's I who's not ready. Or maybe life is more random than either of us would like. And maybe that doesn't mean that God is not good, that He doesn't have good gifts for us. I have known so many of His good gifts. I know He's not holding out on me. He's not like that. So, I wait.

But tonight, I miss you.

Signed with love,
Your wife