It's funny how one can function alone, with some semblance of normalcy, for x number of days when somebody else is, say, sixty miles away. Yes, there's distance, but it's only an hour's worth of distance, a CD-length drive. Knowing that he or she is reachable by more than just a telephone call or email somehow makes the temporary separation bearable.

Multiply that distance by fifty and x days seem like an eternity. Everything gets thrown out of whack. Sleep comes slower, appetite diminishes and coffee consumption falls below acceptable levels.

Coping mechanisms kick in. At night, you watch television into the wee hours and read page after page past your bedtime. During the day, you bury yourself in work, slaving away in a cubicle of denial.

You suddenly appreciate your cell phone that much more. You make sure that it's constantly charged. You set your watch three hours ahead so you know when he or she will be awake or asleep. A voice over the telephone soothes the soul some, but once you hang up, you realize you can't hop in a car and reach that someone in an hour or even a day. You replay the fantasy of dropping everything and grabbing the first flight out.

At some point, you confront your emotions, sit and dwell upon them. You wonder why distance makes a difference. You wonder if missing someone is sign of weakness, but attribute that view to cynicism. You lean towards believing that missing someone is simply a sign that you're human.

You let the thoughts swirl about until they spill out onto paper. Eventually, you decide to stop wallowing, face the future and think about what to do when he or she returns. You set about doing small things, tiny gestures, something more than words. Time for missing becomes time for planning and doing.

It's another day and the first of June. Only twenty-four hours until things get thrown back into whack.