Since Antoine returned to his home in France six days ago (7/18/18), my heart has been weighted down with tears. I couldn’t have predicted how many thousands of droplets I’d cry, or SOBs (Shortnesses Of Breath?)

Unconsciously, our love began the first day of spring 2018, so unpredictably. Our ages are so widespread.

When I was in my late thirties, I began running marathons, eventually setting the goal of 36 marathons in 36 months, to achieve the women’s American record of consecutive marathons. Why, for goodness sake would I do something so crazy?

I’d ask myself that while jog-walking the last six miles of every 26.2 mile marathon. What my mind replied was: “You love the recognition.” From that ‘high’ of crowds applauding as I cross the finish line. The certificate in my hand. The red, white and blue ribbon around my neck with medal dangling.

Because I didn’t run for speed, only to finish, I rarely became injured. Yet, one injury forced me to take a six week break from training 30-40 miles per week. I substituted three days per week of swimming which did not deter my weight gain of ten pounds. I was disappointed; a bit appalled! My diet hadn’t changed. My defenses hadn’t either: my refusal to cry.

It wasn’t until my fourth marriage that I broke open to tears deeply buried. A waterfall experience. So unawares. After all, I had to be ‘strong’ as a single mom of two daughters. (They visited their dad every third weekend and two weeks in the summer.)

Ever since primal crying my weight has stayed the same 125 pounds.

Now, nearly 20 years later, I am waiting for What’sApp notifications from Antoine, six hours ahead of EST. For reassurance – to remove the weight off my heart of loss: of living together; of sleeping together; of making love.