By the time you read this, I will be gone. Already drifting off to sleep no doubt, my day done here, in the future.
As you open one eye and try to stifle the insistent alarm sliding down into the duvet cocoon, I will be finishing reading my bedtime story, and ready to surrender to sleep.
I’m here and you are there. I’ve already lived this day.
The one you are waking up to.
I’ve already struggled through a day’s worth of raising kids – chiding the girls as they smear the kitchen counter with buttered knives after making school lunches, and dragging the Uni student out of bed (at 11am!)
I’ve already slipped my trainers on in the fragile dawn dark and pounded the pavement down past the Marina and over the bridge to the beach where I greeted your future day’s sun.
It was fine, again today.
The weather here is a gift I give thanks for every day. Twice some days when I remember the snow and ice you’re waking up to there in England. In the little house with the nude oak tree outside the bedroom window where the squirrels played, bounding from branch to branch. Where the morning smelt of coal and damp sod.
I’ve already answered calls, and worked and looked for work and spoken to oh, so many people. I’ve laughed and cried and grumped and worried – a lot can happen in a day, you know. I’ve already heard the news – the Pope resigned, who knew he could?
As you worshipped the shower god I was preparing dinner and doing the dishes and watching Campbell Live and the News – which was surprisingly optimistic. Growth is good, the dollar’s up against the pound and businesses are feeling confident here in the future in New Zealand.
We are basking contently in our golden summer.
You are shivering in the winter of your discontent.
You scrape the cold off your car windscreen.
I climb into bed.
You side behind the steering wheel.
I pick up my phone to check…
I haven’t talked to you for 24 hours now. For you, it was just last night.
But you forget, I am thirteen hours ahead and a great deal has already happened in my awake world. And it’s hard feeling so very far from you – so disconnected – when even the sky outside our separate windows is a different colour, a different hue – mine features stars, yours an anaemic sun.
How much longer till you get here, so we can begin living together again?
How much longer till you join me here, thirteen hours ahead?
How much longer till you come back to the future?