His voice has become familiar to me. Almost as familiar as my mother’s or my father’s.
My ear drinks in the frequency and feels like honey down a raw throat.
There’s a warmth I feel when I hear that first “hello”, the same warmth I feel travel down my esophagus and into my chest when I sip hot tea on a bitterly cold day.
I find comfort in him. The same comfort I feel when I snuggle in the corner of the sofa surrounded by pillows, phone in hand, knowing I have nothing to do and nowhere to be.
His love envelops me, it washes over me like a warm shower after an afternoon of sweating in the sun.
I’m dependent on his existence, the same dependency to my livelihood as the fresh air I breathe on a cool summer night.
I have faith in him, the same faith I have that the yellow sun will rise when I wake up in the morning to go to work.
I feel hope with him, the same hope I feel when I chase my nephew around the yard as he giggles and screams without reserve.
His eyes see me, they see into me as clearly as I see through the stream of water flowing from the faucet as I wash the dishes and daydream about him.
He is everywhere and nowhere near me. My daily life connected to everything about him. I feel his presence in the most mundane things, things that elicit feelings that I connect back to him.
He who affects my life without living in it.
Him who I hope one day will.