I got out of the shower yesterday and smeared some lotion that I barely ever use over my shoulders and arms. It's that thick body cream that comes in a tub instead of a bottle, and it smells like cake. I bought it at the Bath & Body Works in Tyson's Corner one weekend with Melissa and Whitney when Rob was living there and I was visiting.

It smells like winter to me, that lotion, so once I put it on I crossed my arms over my face and breathed in deeply, remembering the really tall but wobbly air mattress we used to sleep on and the kitchen with barely anything in it that he shared with two other guys. Chilly afternoons with friends and dinners out in DC, loud bars at Halloween and high heels at holiday parties, sad Sunday afternoons filled with naps and extra kisses and four hour drives into the night.

They were days full of friends and full of fun, but they were days that sometimes felt as though they'd never end; like we'd always be separated by our jobs and the cities we lived in.

But now we have this place together, and though it sometimes also feels transitional, there are flowers in vases and all of my books are on a shelf and we share a car and say things like, "What do you want to do for dinner?" because after a day of work, we are together. And I wake up on Sunday mornings with nowhere to go and I put water on the stove for coffee and think, this is our life. And it is so good.

I'm visiting Rob in Minneapolis this weekend, which will be the last time I visit before I live there.

It's hard to believe that almost half a year ago, Rob booked a one-way ticket to take advantage of a great opportunity and that, for the past five months or so, we've been separated by airports and layovers. And it's even harder to believe that it was a year ago that he packed up and moved to DC, and I made the decision to stay put and see where his first project would be located.

Minnesota was never something we planned on, but it happened, and in the long run, it's going to be so, so good. I am thankful for this year of distance--it gave me the opportunity to land a great job, make some amazing friends, and become more independent than I ever thought I could be.

There is a lot of joy and excitement in this move of mine, but that does not mean that the transition will take place without some sadness or a few growing pains. I've never lived much more than a two-hour drive from my family and most of my friends. And then there's Rocky. The past year that I have spent at home with that dog has been such a gift.

In January, a vet diagnosed him with kidney failure and gave us a grim three to six month life expectancy. Now, six months later, he's no different. He runs, plays fetch, swims in the lake, and makes me laugh every day. Sometimes he has trouble getting up after a nap, but he's 14 years old; and although I tried, there's no use putting my life on hold to maybe watch him die. I think he'll be around for plenty of visits to come, and I have to stop making decisions (or, rather, refusing to make decisions) based on fear, which is something I have become very good at so far in my adult life.

So here it is! I turned in a formal letter of resignation at work yesterday. I'm hitting the road with my mom and my brother at the end of July and should be moving in (and seeing The Postal Service play live!) by August 2.

Minnesota will be my--finally, our--home for at least the next year. I am excited and scared and so incredibly happy. It's bittersweet, to pick up and leave everything you know to be with the love of your life every day. To be in Virginia with your family, and say "Minnesota!" without any knowledge of what comes after that. But I have faith in so many things, and there's room in my life for a new adventure.

*Custom image c/o Purple Duck Handmade.

There is a distinct feeling of weekend mornings, especially those in spring.

They are cool and wet, sometimes rainy, mostly smelling of sunscreen, and if you've ever spent a year or two living with a man who is now halfway across the country from you, then they can be lonely.

Spring comes back to me every year, carrying memories tied to scents and songs that remind me of some life I used to have. The most recent life that has been visiting me lately is the one last year where I hardly made enough money to pay my rent each month and daydreamed about a job with a desk and no beverage cooler to organize; one that wouldn't chip my nail polish every time I reached into the sink to get an espresso cup.

Two years ago (which is amazing to say, because that Christmas does not feel two years ago yet), I got a beautiful watch for Christmas, and I put it in its little box on my dresser and waited for the day that I could wear it to a job where I was neither a barista nor a graduate student, and could wear a watch that was not waterproof or a pretty shirt without fear of spilling something onto myself.

It's almost been a year since I moved back home, I thought yesterday as I drove away from the office that allows me to dress up and wear my watch without fear, the one that challenges me in a new way every day. A year ago, Rob and I were packing up the apartment we shared together in Charlottesville. We were going out for brunch and taking walks around our neighborhood together.

When I think about the distance to Minnesota, or even just to DC, I am amazed and sometimes appalled that at one time, I had Rob in the same city, living at the same address, eating dinner at the same table, falling asleep and waking up in the same bed as me, every day. I don't know if we realized, at the time, just how good it was. We definitely didn't realize, at the time, just how far away from each other we'd end up a year later.

Things then might have been simple and easy and full of love, but they weren't nearly as promising as the things we have now because of our sacrifices. Now things are complicated and hard, but still full of love, which is the thing that I am quickly realizing matters the most.

There is always something about this specific place in time, now, that is so difficult to grab onto with anything but impatience.

Here's to patience.