I always greatly anticipate my “me” time.  I can’t lie and say that I don’t look forward to hearing myself think, to completing a task without 50 interruptions, to exclaiming something other than “golly!” when I smash my finger in a drawer.

I get so excited at the prospect of reading a book without having to re-read the same paragraph four times, at the possibility of photographing something other than him.

And then he walks out the door and my arms instantly ache for him.  I feel undone, like a spool of thread spinning wildly down a wooden staircase.

It’s when he’s not here that I realize just how much I need him by my side.  And while I do always end up relishing my freedom, a piece of my soul is on pause until he returns.

He makes me a better person.

So I stand outside in the February rain and I photograph his swing.