The Stranger

Something was up as I swung my legs out of bed on Sunday morning. I looked around, I was not alone in the bedroom - it was quiet, too quiet, it was a metaphysical feeling. I rubbed my eyes and forehead, seemingly unable to fully wake up. I heard footsteps and then the grandson bolted through the door, landing in the middle of the bed before I would say anything. “Hey Pop Pop, it’s time to get up!” He laid on his back, giggling, while putting his feet on my back. “What’s the rush?” I seized the opportunity to lie down on the bed, wrapping my left arm around him and giving a big squeeze. I just wanted to close my eyes a bit longer, but these quiet times with the him are priceless. “Rush?” He whispered unequivocally and looked at me. “It means hurry, like why are we hurrying? We have all day, right?” I tried to explain while feeling a dry tickle in my throat. I felt like coughing but avoided it, and wondered about the room temperature while pushing off covers. “Blake at school said the F word Friday and he got in trouble. Nina helped me with the math assignment and I gave her one of my cookies.” He whispered facts or highlights from his week with his mother as we both lie back on the bed, it was the greatest moment of my week these days. I felt blessed to have these personal moments with him. I didn’t feel the need to confess my love of the F word and constant use of it somedays. “What is wrong with your head?” He sat up and watched me rub my temples. “Nothing really, just a headache, just need some coffee to jumpstart it.” It was a small lie, or I thought so, as my head pounded like a marching band took up residence in my brain. I was not sure if the coffee would help. Besides, this is how all of our Sunday morning talks ended. I could feel its presence with us, the stranger lurking, getting closer and closer to me. I wanted to push the little one away from him. He bounced from the bed, grabbed my hand and I followed, making our way to the kitchen. Oatmeal is his favorite breakfast, so I started the process before grandma (oh yes, she loves being called that) joined before taking over as he loved grandma’s oatmeal. I think her secret was nutmeg, but I wouldn’t swear to it. I shook some Tylenol pills from the bottle, chasing them with water while rummaging though the cabinet for other remedies - the stranger was gaining strength. I lowered my increasingly aching body into a table chair as the little one found a seat directly across. I smiled while examining him, wondering if he had brought the stranger into the house. “You okay?” She sat a mug of coffee in front of me while rubbing my shoulder. “Yeah, why?” I blew and sipped. “It’s just, well, you don’t look good, and you are warm.” She mumbled while the back of her hand rested on my forehead. Thirty years together meant a kind of familiarity that cannot be easily explained. “I am tired, and throat a little dry, but this weather is crazy - 70 one day, 40 the next and then all of the rain.” I motion at nothing specific with my hands. “You should go lie down. We’ll be okay, get some rest.”

Man in the mirror

I miss the stranger, a bond between us. An older guy, thinning hair with an increasingly conservative approach to life . Do we all pull back as we age? He loved to show that hed’d seen it all before, the Phillies losing to the Astroes? He reflects on the 1993 team - bothe seasons in similar fashion. The frozen lock on the truck’s driver door - he says get graphic like he did with his old F-100 . His knowledge and experience are indispensable, wisdom,.The younger kids think they know it all and he is useless. Isn’t that the way it always goes as generates pass the torch (sometimes that torch is fumbled). We don’t really talk, it is more of a low mumble and borderline rants. I always thought he was vaguely familiar, and there it is it is dad. Now, there is no swooop of hair to cover the ever-expanding patch of skin on top of the head as he did so many years prior, but remnants of a once flourishing socient remain on both heads. Combine that with the similarly large noses, and “..you could never deny he’s your father..” as the heart surgeon said a few years ago. I splash water on my face a few times to overcome the tiredness of the morning, the water beads on my head and rolls down the gutters on each side of the nose along with the wrinkles forming around the eyes, a tiny drop hands conspicuously on my chin. 

At first it was shocking to see him staring back at me in the mirror. At first, I wanted to ask about the serpintine belt on the truck and how to replace before remembering or realzing it is just me, and I know what needs to be done with the belt - push the middle pulley to loosen the tension and abra cadabra it slides off. I need to get that part to fix the dryer, just like he did at the house on Manslick so many years ago. Mom could not believe he did anything right, but I was a witness. I admire my visitor, my nemesis, my twin, all the while others hate him. Do they hate me as well? I wish we could sit down for a conversation like the past - a sober conversation. He did appear in a dream one night, but all I thought about was the recent prostate exam and all of our jokes. We had so many good laughs. I remember him standing in the mirror so many years ago, spraying men’s hairspay to keep that flap in place. It was infeminate (in my mind), especially when he borrowed Mom’s White Rain but he usually had a product called Consort. We were stuck in a boat on a nearby lake when a storm surprised us and dumped rain as we sped towards the dock, I laughed as Dad steared the boat while whiping the stinging hair spray running into his eyes. In the end, we were both laughing.

Turn the Page

I am startled as I open the flaps on the box , shocked by the sight of her book. I pick it up and peel open the front cover, I can almost smell her, and there it is, a message in that familiar handwriting "I couldn't help but think of you and all the possibilities and unknowns ahead, let the fun begin!" She signed her name, I slowly trace it with my finger and look over my shoulder to see if anybody is watching. It is a Joseph Campbell book, I never read it, but I remember her placing it my hands and laughing - there seemed to be so many possibilities.

"I know you said no, but I got you something. I thought of you when I saw it, with all the stuff we have been discussing." She pushes me back and grabs me by my shoulders, silently telling me to stay before retrieving a gift bag from her car.

"Oh wow, you really shouldn't have, thank you so much." I wrap my arms around her and pull her tight before we kiss. We lean against her car and look up at the darkening sky, there is a long silence before we are in each others arms again, quickly scooting into the backseat of her SUV. I quickly scan the surroundings before closing the door, it seems advantageous to have parked at the top of the campus parking garage.

"Are we really going to do this?" She pulls me close, answering her own question. 

I can't imagine sex in the backseat of any of my cars now - I'd be at a physical therapist the next day trying to fix my back. For some reason, it worked that night, of course everything always seems right and urgent in the beginning. 

Of course, we both were married and knew it. In the end, love was not enough, it still pains me that I was stupid to cross that line and lose a great friend, as if it was avoidable. Would we have still been such close friends now if there had never been the affair? A bead of sweat drops from my forehead to the yellowing page, I reread it.

"Is that the last box?" 

"What? Fuck, no, you scared the shit out of me!" I flinch as my wife seems to magically appear in the garage doorway, hands on hips, forever the taskmaster. The bursts out laughing and I join her with my own laughter more rooted in nervousness.

"Calm down old man, wait, are you still looking at the first box? This will take all day, just let it go, leave the past where it belongs, besides you haven't opened those boxes in years, let's drop them off today." She turns and is gone as fast as she appeared and I wonder if she was ever really there.

"Okay." I realize the craziness of this answer since I am alone. I tear the first page from the book and push it into my back pocket. I wonder what we had been discussing that led her to get me a book about mysticism, but we were always discussing something. She could make any subject exciting, or maybe that was just youth. The conversations were always so enthralling and I truly miss that, I miss that other version of me. Was that me or is this me, I remember asking myself that type of question when it was all happening.

I move the boxes to the back of the car. It would've taken me weeks to review everything. My wife is not a reader, so she'd never understand nor has she ever understood.

Lights out

One minute we are talking, the next minute we are bathed in darkness, the house completely silent. I scramble and finally locate a flashlight, heading outside to the power box. I open the lid/door and freeze, it is you and I standing next to your house. You turn towards me and tell me to step back, that someone needs to be available to call for help. You pull the black plastic breaker and hold it in the air, you turn and smile. I stand with the my own breaker in had - the same smile. I look at the dangling wires, remember when the guy at the hardware store explained how it all works? I install the replacement, never worrying about electrocusion as you did so many years ago. We laughed and high-fived when the new breaker was switch on and power returns to the hosue. I return to the family room, now bathed in light and noise from the television. She asks why I am smiling like a maniac and I give a wink to you, the one who survived and I never had to call for help. 

Balance

The midday sun shines through the window that spans the length of the room. I stand and walk to the window, quickly lower the shade halfway to everybody’s relief as we now can all see again. I can feel my stomach turn as I glance to the clock at the other end of the room, 11:30, the promised, or rather scheduled, lunch break - it is supposed to be delivered from local sandwich shop. All of the locals in the meeting have been raving about the place all morning - there is no way it could ever meet those expectations.  

I spot the lunch cart at the door as I return to my seat. I am farthest from the door (and meeting presenter), so there will be a wait for food. I sit back as everybody grabs a box - a box lunch in an actual box. A hush envelopes the room, soft noises of chewing and opening packages. I pull the sandwich out and take a quick bite, when have I ever been this hungry. My eye catches my manager sitting directly across from me - he is sitting back with sandwich in one hand and his drink resting in the other, his hand is outstretched, palm open, the cup is in the middle of the hand. Who holds a drink like that? I quickly do a visual survey of the rest of the group, cups in normal places, no palms. 

The lunch break ends with everybody reconvening in their previous seats, munching cookies, my manager enjoying one as well with the cup sitting precarioulsy in the same position. I look around, does anybody else see this? The rest of the meeting crawls, but I remember nothing as my mind is sidetracked by the cup. I finally text a friend on the other side of the table “what is going on with Brian’s cup?” I watch as he reads it, followed by a quick glance over followed by eye roll, we both cover our mouths to laugh. I remember nothing else from that meeting except the cup. 

Connection

seeking a true connection

accompanied by emotion

giving life meaning

crave the connection

the spark that ignites

being seen and heard

valued for who we are

warts and all

hard to define

yet easily recognized

striving and searching

for deep connection

that makes us whole

All is not

In fair publishing company, where we lay our scene,

Two editors met, and their attraction did convene.

Scott and Kelly, both wed, could not resist

The fire between them, their passion did persist.

But alas, their love was not to be forevermore,

For Kelly's tendencies did Scott begin to abhor.

Her stalking and lack of original thought

Made Scott realize their love was purely for nought.

Scott had children to raise, and his duties were clear,

He could not let his lust for Kelly interfere.

He made attempts to break things off, but to no avail,

Kelly's hatred for him did only prevail.

And yet, Scott longed to hear Kelly's voice once more,

To see her smile and hear her laugh, as he did before.

But fate had deemed their love a tragedy,

And they were not to be, in fair publishing company.

Scott moved on with his life, but the memory remained,

Of the love that was lost, and the heartache sustained.

For though it was lust that had led them astray,

Scott couldn't help but long for Kelly's company each day.

But the story must end here, for such is life,

Full of heartbreak and strife.

And though we may wish for a different end,

Sometimes it is not meant to be, my friend.