You've done it! This is, I promise, the final stage of your scavenger hunt this year. There's no hidden message in my superfluous commas. There's no more obfuscation, especially not in the way that you found in Hank last year. There's just one simple, beautiful fact. I love you, now and forever.
Last Christmas, I ended my letter to you with a false prediction, in that there's no way this will be a brief message, but I did manage to identify something important: that the letter I wrote to you was "the beginning of something perfect and indescribably grand." While I've moved away from such elevated language in recent months, that sentiment has defined everything I've experienced in the past year. I just don't have words to define what you mean to me, because I will never encounter anything else, in this life or the next, which simply is my life. You are the lens through which I view this world, and although it terrifies me to think that I'll be without you for so long, I want to hold on to every single moment we have together; plain and simple, I need you.
We're standing on the precipice of something fairly daunting, but I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that we'll be able to overcome it together, because you've helped me to overcome every stupid barrier I built for myself. For both of us. Victoria, I'm sitting at my desk as I type this, crying my eyes out a bit, both because I hate the feeling that I won't be able to hold you and to whisper to you in person that everything's going to be alright in the next five months, and because I'm so thankful that this kind of expression is something that you've returned to me. Your simple choice to care about me has allowed me to feel genuinely myself, and to feel entirely comfortable with that person, for the first time in my life, because I'm whole now. I have you, and I will never drive us apart.
We've tended to romanticize my brokenness a little in recent months, but here's the crucially important thing. I'm just not broken. Sure, I've got a lot to overcome sometimes, and I'm slightly prone to anxieties, but I'm genuinely optimistic now, because I know that whatever we have to fight against, we do it together. I know that seeing me during the nightly call makes you sad because you aren't with me, but I'm just so thankful for any glimpse of how beautiful our life is, and will be, together. I promise you right now that we'll build a home together that's perfectly comfortable and suited to our needs and welcoming to our children and not covered in animal hair and the kind of place we never want to leave, so long as you'll have me.
When I think back to where we were last year, I can't but help but apologize for the person that I was. In so many ways, I was deluded: I thought that I was actively being myself, I thought that you liked me, I thought that a French supplemental major was a good career choice, I thought the long hair semi-suited me. I hate that you felt like you had to stick with me through that, because the last thing I've ever wanted is to cause you pain. Granted, I'm glad you did, but if there's one thing that's changed since last Christmas, it's that we see each other so much clearer now, despite your resistance to corrective lenses.
You've helped me to genuinely discover who I've always been, because I'm not anything without you. I don't mean to sound overly clingy in saying that, but I mention it because it's true, and because even the moments I spend alone are times when I'm just thinking about how excited I am for the quiet moments we'll have in the future. Just reading in bed, or caring for our lamb, or sitting together after the children leave for school. They're the only thing I want. And so I'm so so so sorry for the sheer amount of time we spent this semester arguing, or with me finishing work alone in my room at four in the morning. I didn't want to put you through the stress of having to watch me suffer through anguished assignments, but I recognize now how short-sighted that was. I robbed us of the one thing I wish I could give you this Christmas: more time together.
While I can't make up for that shortcoming now, I can promise you this: after this great, ocean-spanning physical separation, I will never again be far from you. This current distance is honestly bringing me to tears once again, and I don't mention it to guilt you or anything; I just know that you hearing my genuine human emotion makes you happy. My heart hurts to be gone from you, even for the few hours in which being awake makes sense in my time zone but not in yours. I hate that those zones are different, but we can take solace, I hope, in the fact that we will always be in the same place in our hearts.
I've once again written a message that isn't quite about Christmas, but it does capture the spirit of the season in one critical way. Christmas is all about family, and I'm without mine right now. Even though things in PA have been very happy, it's all just foreshadowing, because my family is entirely you, and John, and Julian, and Theodora. I know you don't always feel complete belonging with your family as it stands, and I think I know why. We're still missing a few people. But I promise that with a little time, we'll never have to miss again.
I hope that my little gifts can give you a little way to feel my presence while you're so far away. Penguin Clothbound Classics are great resources for clue-hiding, so I felt that I should keep with tradition there, and their book of Christmas stories seemed perfect for the first time we've truly celebrated the holiday together. While I've never read Period Piece, the illustrations are simply gorgeous, and the narrative of an attentive, incredibly-intelligent woman growing up under unusual circumstances seemed perfectly apropos. It has also since gone out of print, so we'll treasure that copy forever. Regarding the Christmas ornaments, which I know you'll be surprised to see: they arrived moments before I began wrapping your gifts, our last day together. It's our own little Christmas miracle. I promise they'll be some of the first of our grand collection together.
This Christmas, I won't make any promises as to the length of next year's letter, but I can tell you this: it's already being written. OOOh, suspense!
I love you I love you I love you,
Your Henry, Rooney-McNeil