In a matter of hours, the jet lands in Madrid, with my heart on board. My wife is spending ten weeks in Spain, studying language and culture and history in Ubeda. (Ella no puede Inglés durante los estudios--y por eso, estoy practicando mi Español.)
The distance isn't infinite: ten weeks of phone cards, Skype, instant messaging, email, blogging, letters, postcards, telepathy. If I complain, a denizen of the twentieth century is near enough to retort, "In my day..." They're right. It's not as bad as it could be. But it's still pretty damn bad.
Miss you already, Melissa. Come back soon.
Update: She arrived safely today, which in the context of this post means tomorrow. I am resisting the temptation to start counting the days.