reunions.

you get used to things being a certain way, to the distance that time and three oceans have put between you. you get used to him not returning your phone calls. ever. you get used to the fact that a simple conversation is sometimes like pulling teeth. you get used to the fact that you go years without seeing each other. and when you do, it's usually in a public place where you can't really talk.

you get used to this.

and then you see him, you have him practically to yourself for a couple of days. you walk in the garden and listen to him talk about his master plan for its growth. you talk about travel and look at books together. you sit in the sun and drink wine together. he tells you that his undivided attention is yours for the taking during this time, yours for the first time you can ever remember, and you kind of smile and cry at the same time. he tells you for the first time in years that he is so proud of you, of how you've grown up so well and become so strong and so capable. you laugh, and for a few minutes you have the relationship you always dreamed of having, here, with your father.

and you try not to get too used to it. you try hard to fight the fierce desire to throw your arms around his neck and hold on tight, and beg him never to go away again.