I went down to the shoreline alone. The person I was with didn't want dirty shoes. "Fine by me," I thought, as taking walks alone is one of my favorite things. I saw what looked like a small archway ahead and went straight to it, past the throngs of people and their dogs.
Finally, after who knows how long of walking, there wasn't a soul in sight. And I loved that.
I hopped on the slippery rocks as the water rose to new heights. It wasn't the safest thing to do, but I was determined to get to that archway. And then I stopped to admire the scene ahead; the sun cast the most magnificent orange and pink and blue, almost like the inside of an abalone shell.
And then I got emotional.
Because after weeks and weeks of trying to be busy and not thinking about the difficulty of living without the person who completes you, it finally smacked me in the face: I'm just a shell right now.
My heart is no longer here. It's three thousand miles away with the man who's been by my side for the last nine years without question. Not only that, but California is no longer home. Virginia is home because that's where he is. And even though it was by far the most beautiful sunrise I had ever seen, I would give away ten thousand of them to be with him.
I know this sounds all very overly dramatic. I know I'll be fine. He'll be fine. We'll be fine. And just like an abalone shell, there's a certain beauty within being split in two, being exposed, being without. There's colors you haven't seen before and a smoothness you wouldn't have otherwise known existed.
But let's get real... who the freak wants to be a shell?