Stuart, my darling,
The hours crawl. All thirty-six of them. I count the days and the hours until your return. I know that this is necessary for work and all and I will bear it. I must. I will be strong for you; and I will tend to your children and your home with strength and cheer.
But the hours do crawl and the days run together and I know not the date and this afternoon, while I carried the memory of your sweet smile in my heart, I sauntered to the beauty parlor that I might be made beautiful for your return. But in my befuddlement, I arrived seven days too soon for my appointed hour with beauty. However, my kind worker of magic took pity on me in my forlorn state and she waved her sharp and pointed wand in order to render me worthy of your attentions and affection. (The paint that you showered me with in loving kindness is now nearly gone.)
And in the dark watches of the night, I dream of your deep and even breathing. In my restless sleep I reach for your still and peaceful body. Alas, I am rebuffed by a blow to the head delivered smartly by one of the karate sisters and I rub my aching noggin and cannot find rest.
At this moment, music plays but it is not your pleasant and cheerful whistle. (Darling, I miss your cheerful tunes.) Memories in the corners of my mind...If you had the chance to do it all again...Would you? John practices his lines. Again. And again. He sings Babs like Pavarotti and it is lovely but not as lovely as the six o'clock chirping that signals the arrival of my glorious relief pitcher.
We languish without you. We subsist on grilled cheese and peanut butter. Pond scum grows upon the waters of the pool. And Henrie. She rolls her mournful eyes toward the door, and waits for her beloved master. She needs you. Her water dish is dry and dusty. The children mark the days upon the calendar. How much longer, Mama? We do miss our dear Papa so.
Oh my dearest, we count the hours until we can touch you once again, until the children can fling themselves at you and wrap their little beings around each of your legs and your waist whilst I hang back and delight in their joy and wait for the tribe to get their fill and then you will once again be mine. All mine.
Hurry home, Sweet Stuart that the sun may shine in Smallville once again.