Missing Missus

I miss Missus. It is probably because I'm not the one dealing with her swollen feet and mood swings and unreasonable cravings. 

I just like having her around. Like when she calls me in to sleep when I'm engrossed in watching crappy news channels on TV. Or when she asks me what I want to eat and I'm in the middle of my 20th push up. Or when I'm in deep thought writing some really poignant stuff and she goes, 'Honey, you should not let the baby become fussy about food the way you are. The baby should be disciplined like me.'

It is true that distance makes the heart grow fonder. But forced solitude also confuses the brain. 

So very often, while missing Missus, I find myself missing many other things. Like my father, who died more than 20 years ago. Like the once close friend who hasn't spoken to me (and vice versa) in 3 years (We fulfill our obligations of silence with unmatched fealty). Like the Summer and Diwali vacations the last of which I saw 6 years ago. Like living in my own home, something that I've not done in the last 3 years. All these things still keep popping in my mind from time to time dropping by in my dreams (nightmares) occasionally. They shake me to the core and then wake me up. 

And then I go back to missing Missus; awaiting the drive back home when I talk a full 23 minutes with her on the phone (I use the blue tooth of the car) and find peace and comfort in her seeming inanities and sweet nothings. 

Missing Missus has become my favourite past time. Devoid of the ferocity of wallowing, it is a sweet little wound that I enjoy licking just enough that it does not fester, nor heals.