And when you write a poem, I know the words, I know the sounds, before you write it down...

The other day I had a conversation with Henry, who is from El Salvador and speaks very very little English. We stumbled through an exchange of information, swapping between broken Spanish and even more broken English. He told me about his wife and kids who are still in Central America, and I told him that I would miss my family too much that far away.

"Miss?"

"Miss... ermm... uhhhmm... miss..."

"Girl?"

"No, miss... to... hm... to miss... to.... hmm."

So I looked up "miss" in a Spanish/English dictionary, but it only had definitions for "miss = missus" and "miss," like you miss a train and "miss," like you miss a target.

Among its nine entries, Webster offers these two definitions:

1.) to notice the absence or loss of
2.) to regret the absence or loss of

What a strange and terrible feeling! What a difficult concept to explain! What a sad sad word!

Ultimately, I looked up "to long for" for in the dictionary, and a light went off in Henry's eyes, and even though it wasn't quite the same, he knew what I was talking about.

"To notice the absence or loss of." "To regret the absence or loss of." Well stated, Webster.

How odd it is to feel happy, to be content, to know that the world is right, while still this feeling lies buried in the pit of my stomach, not a pain or a bother, but a presence, a slow creeping pressure that nudges my organs from time to time. Even as I celebrate my life as it is with my friends who are here, there is absence and there is loss, and I both notice and regret these things.

I began to wonder why there wasn't a more suitable title for this important emotional state, but I suppose it would be a redundant adjective when it came to describing the people we love. We would be better served with a word that describes that change of life, that point at which we begin to permanently miss someone or something.

There is no burning pain, no searing hotness that calls out at your absence, friends. Not usually, anyway. Instead, it is the gentle pulling that I feel on my heart strings, the permanent knowledge that you are there, and I am here. I notice this. I regret this. I cherish this, too.

These daily tugs, these subtle reminders, they are evidence of your presence in my life. However transient our actual time together has been, you have made a indelible mark on me, and I thank you for that.