Feeling: contemplative
Listening to: Vienna Teng - Mission Street
Reading/Watching: - -

So I am in a highly contemplative mood, after my three-day visit to Miller's home in Dorothyland (which, I've decided should still be depicted in shades of gray). His grandmother died, and he used frequent flier miles to get me up there to sing for the funeral. Krynn came along, because both of us thought we might be needed, to be supportive and help out as much as possible, and just be there for him, whatever he needed.

Except he kind of... didn't need anything. Or he didn't seem to, anyway. It put us both at a bit of a loss.

We come from different lives, and I know that. But seeing his life as it is, with the bonus exposure to extended relatives who shake hands or just nod to greet each other (where the hell are my crazy Texas cousins who hug each other into hypoventilation when you need them?), made me feel lonely. Not lonely for me, per se, because I knew I'd be an odd duck up there, and I had Krynn along to talk to when we were inadvertently excluded. I was lonely for him.

I wanted somebody (other than me or Krynn) to hug him. I wanted somebody to tell him he's being amazing for helping with all the planning, all the cleaning, all the extras that go with funerals and family gatherings. I wanted somebody to tell him he doesn't have to atone for things anymore.

And the first relative that made a snide remark about how "at least he's better than he used to be"? I wanted to hit them. Hard. I'm protective that way. (At least Krynn felt the same way. We both ranted to each other later.)

It made me sad, that ever since he's graduated and gone to live at home, he comes back quiet. He visits, and he's reserved, like there's no reason to speak. Two or three days later, he's warmed up to how he used to be, smiling and laughing and being silly and lighthearted, and then it's time to leave and go back home.

The same happened during our visit. By the third day, he was being goofy and jumping on our bed to wake us up. And on the fourth morning, he drove us to the airport, and we were talking and having fun, and then we were on a plane and he was gone.

It frustrates the hell out of me. I know there's not much I can do about it, because my opinion isn't worth much, and my meddling is worth less. He's a grown man. It's his life. But good Lord, shouldn't it resemble a life? It shouldn't be so hard to scare an expression across his face. I wonder sometimes, whether he's in a holding pattern to make sure he's not doing something wrong before he'll risk enjoying himself.

I'm probably being melodramatic because I miss him. I miss the Miller that drove with me to Wal-Mart at eleven p.m. and made jokes about boobs (although I used to thwack him if he was talking about mine). I miss the Miller that wasn't surrounded (and judged) by people who still remember How He Used to Be.

I miss him, and I want to make sure he knows that I'm here, now and always. And I'll be here next time he wants me to fly to Dorothyland, with or without frequent flier miles.

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