There’s something quietly devastating about this piece, Erin… in the best way.
Perhaps it’s the weight of care you took to carry back and fortheverything in those suitcases. Fifty pounds at a time. Measured, rationed, chosen. Not just things, but pieces of a life you’re trying to build in two places at once.
I speak as a person who dated my wife by email. AOL, can you believe. We never met one time in those two years, yet we fell in love. Yes, we knew of each others physical appearance, but I was serving with the RAF at the time. I was able to read and relate to your beautiful piece.
So when you talked about the list, oh yes, God, the list. I left the RAF and started flying back between London and San Francisco. It starts as practical, almost ordinary, and then slowly reveals itself as something else entirely. Not shopping. Not even preparation. It’s love, translated into objects. Into problem-solving. Into trying, again and again, to close a gap that won’t quite close.
What you captured so well is that tension: the rhythm that keeps you going and the quiet cost of living inside it. Nothing dramatic. No big declarations. Just the accumulation of small, necessary acts that begin to carry emotional weight.
And then that ending, sitting on the balcony, not speaking, relearning each other’s faces, that’s where it all exhales. (where I felt the flood overtaking my eyes. You don’t rush it. You let it arrive. That restraint is what makes it land in the reader's heart.
That the work of loving across distance doesn’t resolve, it just… continues.
Because that’s what this feels like: not longing, not even distance.
But a life and romance built in transit, held together by intention, weight limits, and the quiet promise that you’ll be back again. (bah, just welled up again)
The song is absolutely beautiful (it sounds so much like Johnny Cash’s later work, which I loved!) and I am absolutely humbled by your feedback, as always. Thank you for the care and attention you gave to my story. “…the rhythm that keeps you going and the quiet cost of living inside it.” Wow. ❤️
This is a beautiful essay on what it's like to live between two places and away from your partner. I only understand the first part - of being unmoored, rootless from five years of full-time travel living in an RV. Looking forward to reading more of your story as it unfolds.
Thank you! I hope you'll write about your RV experience. I guess this is like that in some ways, because right now I'm never completely at home anywhere. On the other hand, I'm not so attached to the concept of a physical home as I was once, and I'm more at home within myself than I ever have been.
Lovely piece tinged with the bittersweet reality of your separation. The love and longing comes through, though, loud and clear. Good luck with migraciones!
Thanks so much for commenting, Marcia! I was so excited to capture that photo of the sun peeking through the clouds under the airplane wing. Everything about the earth looks spectacularly different from an airplane.
There’s something quietly devastating about this piece, Erin… in the best way.
Perhaps it’s the weight of care you took to carry back and fortheverything in those suitcases. Fifty pounds at a time. Measured, rationed, chosen. Not just things, but pieces of a life you’re trying to build in two places at once.
I speak as a person who dated my wife by email. AOL, can you believe. We never met one time in those two years, yet we fell in love. Yes, we knew of each others physical appearance, but I was serving with the RAF at the time. I was able to read and relate to your beautiful piece.
So when you talked about the list, oh yes, God, the list. I left the RAF and started flying back between London and San Francisco. It starts as practical, almost ordinary, and then slowly reveals itself as something else entirely. Not shopping. Not even preparation. It’s love, translated into objects. Into problem-solving. Into trying, again and again, to close a gap that won’t quite close.
What you captured so well is that tension: the rhythm that keeps you going and the quiet cost of living inside it. Nothing dramatic. No big declarations. Just the accumulation of small, necessary acts that begin to carry emotional weight.
And then that ending, sitting on the balcony, not speaking, relearning each other’s faces, that’s where it all exhales. (where I felt the flood overtaking my eyes. You don’t rush it. You let it arrive. That restraint is what makes it land in the reader's heart.
That the work of loving across distance doesn’t resolve, it just… continues.
Because that’s what this feels like: not longing, not even distance.
But a life and romance built in transit, held together by intention, weight limits, and the quiet promise that you’ll be back again. (bah, just welled up again)
It’s a beautiful piece.
May I be forward?: https://open.spotify.com/track/2Cd6z68X9UZP0mtqZX0LJ3?si=0437e88baef14141
The song is absolutely beautiful (it sounds so much like Johnny Cash’s later work, which I loved!) and I am absolutely humbled by your feedback, as always. Thank you for the care and attention you gave to my story. “…the rhythm that keeps you going and the quiet cost of living inside it.” Wow. ❤️
Thank you. I wrote the song about mine and Jenny’s romance as we kept crossing the pacific once a month.
Your work deserves attention. I’m both happy to give it and at the same time learn from your work.
This is a beautiful essay on what it's like to live between two places and away from your partner. I only understand the first part - of being unmoored, rootless from five years of full-time travel living in an RV. Looking forward to reading more of your story as it unfolds.
Thank you! I hope you'll write about your RV experience. I guess this is like that in some ways, because right now I'm never completely at home anywhere. On the other hand, I'm not so attached to the concept of a physical home as I was once, and I'm more at home within myself than I ever have been.
That’s sort of the theme of my RV experiences - I had to detach from a physical place to find I was home. I wrote a post about this recently.
I was just reading your poem when you replied. 😊 Beautiful.
A lovely ode to togetherness in the face of separation.
Thanks for reading and commenting, Leslie! I never used to think of writing as a coping strategy but it's what's keeping me going right now.
Loved this. So beautifully written.
Thank you so much for your comment, Connie! I would love to know what resonated most with you.
Lovely piece tinged with the bittersweet reality of your separation. The love and longing comes through, though, loud and clear. Good luck with migraciones!
Thank you, I really believe in the power of positive energy so I appreciate your good wishes!
A beautiful story, Erin. I can only imagine how hard it is when you're not together. How exciting, though, when you are! Love the photos.
Thanks so much for commenting, Marcia! I was so excited to capture that photo of the sun peeking through the clouds under the airplane wing. Everything about the earth looks spectacularly different from an airplane.
It sure does, Erin :) You're welcome, lovely lady :)