If not When

As it turns out my favorite person may not be coming home after she wraps up this job; if she gets an offer for a permanent position elsewhere (a strong possibility now) she'll have to relocate to another state in the Pacific Northwest, find a place to live, etc. I would be thrilled for her, but a little sad, too. It'll be the first time we have the holidays without her. The situation reminds me of this poem, one of my old favorites:

If you were coming in the Fall,
I'd brush the Summer by
With half a smile, and half a spurn,
As Housewives do, a Fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls---
And put them each in separate Drawers,
For fear the numbers fuse---

If only Centuries, delayed,
I'd count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, til my fingers dropped
Into Van Dieman's Land,

If certain, when this life was out---
That yours and mine, should be
I'd toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And take Eternity---

But, now, uncertain of the length
Of this, that is between,
It goads me, like the Goblin Bee---
That will not state--- its sting.

-- Emily Dickinson

Image by Susan Sewert from Pixabay