I try to have a conversation from the bedroom. He was in the bathroom.
“So what did you say?” he asked paying only half attention. I sat in a huff on the edge of the bed putting on my socks. The day was beginning. It was an ordinary moment in an ordinary day.
“Didn’t I tell you about it earlier?” a conversation fast becoming frustrating.
No response. Agh, he never listens I tell myself once again, piling it on top of all the other complaints that mound up over 20 years. “Why do I have to tell you everything 100 times?” I continue, making a rather fair argument in my head. I look up to see if he is listening. He is not. I stop myself mid argument. I breathe, take this moment to let go, and simply watch.
White faced, thick and fluffy. Bare chest, the one I know so well. Strong and solid. He stood exposed, present, focused.
Tap, tap tapping on the sink. The blade washed clean. His arm rose once again. The arm that shovels the snow, that reaches for his daughters hand crossing a street, that pushes a bike up a hill for a weary son, the arm that holds us all at various times.
This arm now rises to shave a clear path, a path well known. The motion repeated; tapping, rinsing, raising arm, clearing path. A ritual, a daydream, an ordinary thing turned magical just because I noticed. The mere act of noticing casts a mighty spell.
Then “poof”, it vanishes, yet I am so thankful to have caught this one. Young 8-year-old runs in yelling “my turn”. And his dad plasters his face with the foam, another ritual begins.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice my earlier conversation tiptoeing back into the room. This time, just a little more lightly.
Copyright (C) 2011 By Meg Lawton. All Rights Reserved.