The Closest Stranger

Predictably, on time, the key is in the lock of the front door. The small click of the light switch turning on. The splash from the release of the shower handle being turned. Then his labored gate, from years of work. He stands just a little less straight than I remember. Looking at an old picture on the wall and then glancing my reflection in the window is the only way I notice how much we have transformed. I don't feel much older, just sitting here. I notice at times challenges, but never chalk them up to old age.

As he enters the room I glance up. Predictably he takes the remote and changes the channel to the Lakers channel. Kobe is speaking. Kobe. With his death, its seems a death of my young adulthood died. A generation gone, an era. An overwhelming sadness. It's too soon to watch for me. The loss seems fresh and bigger  than I wish to confront tonight, but I don't say anything.

He must have sensed this without me saying a word. I feel him look my way before taking the remote and flipping on a movie.

I marvel at how we have settled into a routine. I'd say, "Like some old married couple", but we aren't like that, we are that. I look in his direction, wondering if he is thinking the same thing. He has his shirt off, reclining back on a few pillows acting as a mound to support his ailing back. On the side table he has his water and a cup of juice. He takes a palm full of peanuts he cups a d brings to his mouth. occasionally he grabs the back scratcher or the hand held massager.

"I hope that guy wins."

We are watching a pumpkin carving show.

"Oh yeah, he's really good. It's so stressful. Sometimes I wish they had more time."

"Yeah, they are all so good."

He catches me studying him and gives an awkward double look.

I see him glance at my side table. At my glass of water, then to the basket of clothes I'm folding. I'm always folding. Then to my book I have resting on the corner next to my water. The book I always hope to read before being too tired. Then back at me, before trying to get back into his show. He has the same look I just had. I catch him glance at the photo of us on the wall and then back to me. Could he be having the same epiphany as me. The face isn't one of disappointment, it's more one of 'how did we get here, get like this.' To me he is the closest stranger I ever let in. I wonder if I'm the same to him. We are not strangers, but these day's we know less about eachother in a way. We work so closely together, we stop asking, stop being curious about eachother. Such is the way of life I suppose. We are comfortable. It's not sad, other than possibly a sad truth, but I know less about him these days. I wouldn't say I care less. I think I just learned to reserve it for the big stuff, the stuff I can. Maybe thats adulthood. It creeps up without you really being aware until the change has happened.

I notice him struggling with the massager to reach a spot on his back. With out needing to ask I grab it, to help him. I hear his sigh of relief. He saunters downstairs. I hear him switch on the gaming system. Still a kid at heart. Loves a challenge and a game. I play at times, but I decide not to join him tonight. After 40 minutes he comes up.

He looks at me in bed with my book and phone. I look at him. We catch eachothers gaze and in that moment we are suspended from ourselves and this place. Our dog whines, not pleased at being left out. We both go to kiss her and end up bumping heads. We look at eachother, both half smiling, rubbing our head, laughing. Great minds think a like, I think. His expression of ironic disbelief and apology with a little annoyance reveals the same thought to sum it up.

We both lay back in bed tired. My hand rests next me. He moves his on top of mine. I care for you too, I think.

The closest stranger I ever let in.





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