The first week is always the hardest.
They are travel weary, jet lagged, climate change, thrown into the chaos of 12 hr work days (sometimes more).
We at home experience void, lack of the familiar, disruption of routine, heavy heart.
Exhausted at the end of the day, but a cold bed alone is the last thing I want to crawl into, and when I finally succumb to yawns bigger than Texas I throw myself into the pillows unable to turn off my mind. Every muscle in my body is intent on staying awake for just another hour, for just in case he might be able to send a message, just in case I don’t miss a call, and just in case I’m in the same boat as him sleepless in unknown territory I want to be awake with him.
Dawn is ever a refreshing sight. The first sunbeams that burst through my eyelids and signal it is one day less.
But I must go to my sleep first before I can catch hold of the sunshine.
To bid good night here is the opening stanza of The Sleepers by Walt Whitman
I WANDER all night in my vision,
Stepping with light feet, swiftly and noiselessly stepping and
Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers,
Wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill-assorted, contradictory,
Pausing, gazing, bending, and stopping.