On this beautiful early Sunday morning we’d be sitting on the deck discussing where we’d hike later that day, or maybe a mellow bike ride with not too many hills.
I’d ask him about the book he was reading last night. While he easily devours chapters, I struggle reading in bed. My eyelids instantaneously get heavy around the second or third paragraph. “Which book did you read last night?” I never could keep track.
His speedy reading made the high stack of books a permanent fixture on his nightstand. His side of the bed had Kurt Vonnegut, Edward Abbey, John Muir, Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, interspersed with fly fishing and cycling guide books. The perfect counterbalance to my side, strewn with magazines. The New Yorker (mainly for the cartoons) and piles of Pilates, yoga, wellness, and nutrition publications.
He’d ask if I had talked to our daughter lately, with a heightened interest and that signature look of his, an astute crispness in his eyes. A look that he shared with our daughter over the years of her unending why’s and how’s of unbridled curiosity about everything. Everything, and he’d be on it, the two of them off and running to learn, explore, discover together. The same clarity in those eyes as he entered the kitchen that late afternoon when she was ten years old asking about calculus, “She totally gets it!”
If he never got sick, I’d be taking for granted his smart grounded opinions, overly thought-out advice on, well, all the happenings. Big, little, up, down, sideways, whatever. My projects, difficult clients, family concerns, financial matters, politics, to what errands and tasks were to be done and who best to do them.
He’d notice that the temperature was at that ideal spot where it’s not noticeable. Then we’d both notice it, taking a moment, a few sips of coffee, and be thankful without having to take it any further. Then quiet. He was the person who introduced me to silence as being a cherished part of conversation.
Listening to the mourning doves, and our drawn-out satisfying sighs, taking in the view, our view. A common thread we found in each other from the get-go, and was the theme for our gravel driveway wedding.
Together we wrote and designed our wedding invitation. He took a panoramic photo of the view from the deck of our first house, the foothills of the Rockies just west of Denver. The headline “When it comes to weddings, we share the same view.” embraced our early years of bagging peaks while our knees were still on the young side. “Let’s hike up there. See what we can see.” was our mantra and the horizons we shared seem to go on forever.
If he never got sick, there we would sit, in no hurry, nodding in agreement before letting the other finish their thought. Reveling in the comfort that we’d grown and nurtured that ability to simply be there, for each other. Looking out at the distant mountains while making plans farther out in the future. Playing off one another’s ideas of “I’ve always wanted to go there.” Respecting, admiring each other’s take on the world, and our little section of it.
He’d stretch those long legs of his out and his feet would hang off the edge of the deck, prompting me to stretch mine out too, the tips of my toes would just brush the edge of his right calf muscle. He had the most gorgeous legs and were the first attribute that I noticed when meeting him and they hadn’t changed a bit from our first encounter decades ago. Six foot four, his large presence, handsome stature and physicality was often misleading and a bit standoffish on first impressions. Our introductory conversation quickly squelched that and revealed a gentle, kind, and caring giant.
As cliche as it was, after a few months of dating I began an active imagination of seeing us grow old together. Him, with that full head of hair, now greying in just the right places, and his body fit as ever, but weathered from all of our outdoor ramblings.
And here we would be, on our deck with a view, and my age-old inklings were spot on, just as I had dreamed they would be.
If he never got sick, and those mysterious and deadly proteins never tangled, knotted and cut off the connections and damaged his brain. If he was spared and continued to be that person who I trusted, and entwined into my life.
That person who made me feel safe.
That person who brought more richness and depth into my life.
That person.
My person,
if he never got sick.
