Someone I never was

The morning shuffle out of the bedroom, the way he pauses at the door hunched over his aluminum walker, looking for me, for my head bent over a notebook, for our Torti-girl curled in sleep on my desk, for our Tabby-boy stretched along the back of my leather office chair, tail flitting into my hair.

We are a small world, the four of us, but 'are' is a huge word. To be. This state of beingness is all we’ve ever been called to do. It really is that simple.

As I rise to hug him, his body is trembly, as if a precarious cairn about to tumble. I imagine picking up each stone of him, keeping him in my pockets, already knowing the weight of carrying him into each day, now into this day.

He asks where the girl who was staying here is now? Rather than telling him there is no girl, I ask what she looks like, though he’s baffled. He tells me that if he begins to forget me, he will stop eating and already he’s not hungry anymore, though he still likes cheesy eggs and ice cream and a purple-dark Zin’.

He is at that tender place where he knows his body, his mind, even the spirit that he doesn’t believe in, are all shifting gears.

How do you feel this morning, I ask. “Weak,” he answers, "a little sad."

Helping him settle into his recliner, with blanket and pillow and headphones for the telly, I lean low to look into his eyes, wet and blue as sea glass in surf.

“I love you,” I offer, and we kiss. He looks up at me. “Thank you for loving me. I’m someone I never was before.”