Sandcastles & Dust Storms

Dear BearVault,

I feel like I lived an entire life overseas. When I got to Morocco, it was as though I had never lived in the US. Recalling my time spent in the US felt like trying to tell a story from an anecdote my parents told about me but that I had no recollection of.

The newness of being back in the US is wearing off and I’m being pulled out of the ice again, or maybe thrown back in.

I effectively clicked the eject button on Morocco and got airdropped back to Missoula. The dust has settled and it feels weird against my skin. I’m struggling without a dust storm and keep expecting that the ones I hold closest will leave me when I’m blinded by the sand. But instead, they show me where the storm has hit them, they show me how it compromised their homes. They brought some buckets and fun shaped molds and are building sandcastles with me. He found a perfect sand dollar and placed it in my hands.

My sweetest boy, while I’m time zones away I’ll wake up in darkness so I can go chase the sunrise and ask it how you’re doing. And I’ll whisper secrets to the dawn just so she can whisper them back to you the next morning. You are my favorite tomorrow. You’re a terrible navigator but an excellent adventurer, and your eyes look like a compass so I’ll just stare at them a little longer while we find our way.

When he tells me he’s feeling sad I tell him habibi, it’s the way the ocean must feel when the moon is gone. My second favorite number starts with the way my fingers feel when I’m punching in his area code. My actual favorite number is when our coordinates align, when from outer space or closer than that, we look like the same dot. I think of him during lightning storms and when I see butterflies.

I swear to God if home is where the heart is, then his arms around me may as well be a house.

I hope he knows that when the sun sets over us, there will always be space underneath my bedsheets for him, and even though we’ll fall asleep in different time zones, there will always be enough hands on my wrist watch to hold him.

I asked if he would marry me and said, “I’m only joking if you’re not into it.” I don’t think it was a punchline.

I think we would be great partners to each other and for our kids I hope we’ll have. We overlap in the important ways but have our own disciplines, which makes sharing space and time feel like I’m learning new things. Maybe he feels the same. When I talked to Pelmeni about this, he said, “If you’re still thinking about this person two weeks into your bike trip, then think about pursuing it.” Pelmeni has known me in every relationship or non-relationship I’ve been in, so I trust his judgment.

I find it weird and refreshing that he has only known me to have pink hair and a proclivity to say things in Darija. He’s only known me as this version of myself, the Brave Little One who came back after a whirlwind.

My sweet BearVault, I write to you in hopes you’ll tell him these things. What is a body to do with all that built up flight-or-fight adrenaline other than kick down the sandcastles? Perhaps, I suppose, go on a long bike ride.

Tuya y suya (inch’Allah),
Osali