There is a simple man who lives in my house. He wakes every morning and showers, even if he has nowhere to go, and drinks his coffee black, and reads the words of people smarter than you or I, or him. He squints at first, because he forgets that his eyes are older now, and then remembers to fumble around for a pair of readers to bring everything into focus.
There is a simple man who lives in my house who gets down on his knees to pray, every day, for things that do and don't concern him. He prays for people who are too busy to pray for themselves. Then he does his exercises in the closet, so he won't wake the toddler who's taken over his bed.
There is a simple man who lives in my house who can not see an overflowing trashcan or an empty box or a pair of shoes - or four - on the floor. But occasionally I catch him looking at me and I know he sees me. I can feel his eyes on my face and in my head and on my heart.
There is a simple man who lives in my house who goes to a job five days a week, and works longer than any man should have to. He doesn't complain about his coworkers or his boss or his customers. I can see the stress around the corners of his mouth and in the way he holds his shoulders, but he keeps it to himself.
There is a simple man who lives in my house, whose departure starts a countdown to his return. So much a part of me, that I feel like I am holding my breath while he's away. Small faces pressed against a glass, waiting to see him coming around a corner. Me, busy in the kitchen, pretending like my heart doesn't still skip a beat when he walks through the door.
There is a simple man who lives in my house, whom I love, still. More than I knew I could, after all this time.
2 weeks ago