Ever since that first time, when I tried to lend her one of my favorite music CDs (an Enya CD I borrowed from someone else, actually), hoping that she would like it, then finding out that she not only listened to Enya, but owned a cassette tape of the very same CD, I always knew that Ærynn and I would always share music.
To be sure, we still have our distinct musical preferences. She tends to like Pop and upbeat tunes, while I like the classics (not classical, mind you; there is a difference) of no particular genre. There are, of course, intersections and overlapping of interest, like Enya.
At any rate, since most of my music files were destroyed when lightning struck Dad's laptop, I only have those left over from when we were still in St. John, that is, the closest I ever lived near Ærynn's house when we were still unmarried. I am listening to them now: Winter Solstice, Paolo Santos, Enya, some Phil Collins & James Ingram, definitely Charlotte Church (before her descent into the dark side) . . . all the songs and music my wife and I shared when we were still together. I am listening to them as I prepare to go to a job I am finding tedious, repetitive, inefficiently managed, and nerve-wracking . . . yet as I listen to this music, all I can remember was the soft glow of my wife's skin in the half light coming in through the bridal chamber window. All that fills my mind now is the sound of her gentle breathing as she lies asleep beside me. I can still smell the gentle fragrance of her hair on the pillow, where I lay my head beside hers. My heart still throbs for the lovemaking that happened just a few minutes ago—no . . . months ago.
And I remember why I have to be patient: for the hope that I will see my lovely wife again, and share music once again.