The alarm clock sounded. “Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.”
Its clanging noise pierced through–deep into–his sleep, and his thoughts were jolted back to last year’s hike in the upper creek when that terrifying squall came upon them so rapidly. It had caught all of them off guard. The temperatures dropped so suddenly. They thought they had prepared for the trip, but they realized very quickly they hadn’t.
He clumsily reached for his phone to shut off the clamoring alarm, and thought to himself, “…man, we barely made it out of there that day. If it wasn’t for the pouch we had in my brother’s equipment pack, we might not have made it.” No sooner had that memory hit him that he was reminded of the crazy conversation from last night.
He sat up slowly in his bed, and felt the pain in his back return. His mind was sharp, but his body was lately telling a different story…one he didn’t like to think about. Once again he was reminded that he wasn’t getting any younger. Mind you, he wasn’t old. His 42nd birthday was just around the corner. “Another year…”, he thought to himself. “Another year…for what?” He bitterly remembered that his 40th birthday was barely celebrated. “There wasn’t even a celebration”, he thought. He said he didn’t want one, but he really did. He really did.
He knew that he shouldn’t keep entertaining these negative thoughts, but he couldn’t help it. His mind raced, and he declared, “She doesn’t know me. She has changed. She’s different. We’re different. If she really knew me, she would have known that I would have wanted at least a small party of friends and family together…even if I said I didn’t.” “It was my 40th birthday for crying out loud!”
His wife had become cold, so he thought. He argued inside himself, “…her affections toward me have waned. She barely rubbed my back anymore. When we were first married, she would tickle my arms and scratch my back all the time.” A little tired smile formed on his face when he remembered that they would get a good laugh about him saying that she was the giver and he was the taker in the marriage. But here they now were; and he thought, “…we hardly laugh together at all. And, neither of us give each other barely a thing.”
He coached himself to stop thinking about their relationship struggles. “There’s a day ahead of you”, he chided himself. “Get up and go.” “This…these thoughts aren’t helping anything.”
Just as soon as he tried to shake off the negativity, he thought back to their walk last Monday. “She didn’t reach for my hand”, he said to himself. “She always wanted to hold hands.” That was the one thing she loved doing together. “It made her feel strong. It made her feel loved. It made her feel connected”, she had told him early on when they were dating.
He smiled thinking about the first time they had held hands. It was so special. It really meant a lot to her. He remembered her saying, “Holding hands is my favorite.” “It’s my favorite, because it’s simple. It’s elegant. It’s timeless. It’s a declaration. He recalled her once eloquently stating, “Holding hands is like writing a poem.” “When two hands come together into a connection of fingers and palms, there is a joining of hearts. There is a joining of souls. There is a joining of minds. Holding hands makes connected what was previously disconnected. Holding hands declares that two are one. Really, holding hands is like the binding and weaving of a rope. Alone, one strap would break under slight pressure. But, wound together, the individual strands become stronger–much stronger than before. What’s more, the relationship between the two is more than just addition in mathematics. It’s not like adding one plus one equals two.” “No”, she said. “It’s one plus one equals infinity.” “Holding hands is a protest to functions and formulas. Holding hands defies the norms, and says, ‘together we are better…together, we are far more than the sum of our parts…together, the only thing stopping us in changing the world around us is our inability or ability to see the world in opportunity together.’ He paused in thought. Shook his head in shame. Last Monday was the first walk in months they had taken together, and we didn’t hold hands. “A poem”, he thought, “went unwritten.”
His mind quickly raced back to her saying several times this week when he had asked her to go on a walk with him that, “She didn’t have time for winter walks when so many other pressing issues were on her plate, not to mention the colder weather.” “On her plate…colder weather”, he thought. “The kids were nearly out of the house, and they both loved the cold”, he said to himself. “They were virtually empty-nesters.” He thought, “She has more time now than ever.”
She was changing. Things were changing. They were becoming…really, they had become married roommates. Still sitting there he wondered, “…how did we get here? Is there any hope?”
Now, he wasn’t one to complain. But sitting in that position on the edge of the bed entertaining this train of thought made his back hurt more. Just then, the pain shot down through his leg like a knife grating against a chalk board. After a brief interval–which felt like an eternity–he got relief. The unbearable pain weakened, and another dull ache settled into his left hip. He tried not to groan out loud, but it was all he could do to remain silent.
He knew she needed sleep. “He needed sleep, too“, he thought. But, she really needed sleep. Their contentious conversation had lasted well into the morning. Nevertheless, he had an early meeting downtown he needed to get ready for. He would have to make do with merely a few hours of sleep. “That would be enough”, he thought to himself. “And, her sleep was precious”, he remembered. Just last week she had been diagnosed with sleep apnea. From what the doctor said, it was no joke that she get sleep.
And so, trying not to wake her he attempted to stand up, but slumped back down on the edge of the bed. “This ache is not going away”, he said quietly. “Is this what chronic pain feels like”, he thought to himself. “Will I always deal with this?”
The room was still dark as he sat there in pain. The air was still, but was biting cold. Winter had finally settled in, and he could feel it. But, he thought to himself, “I love winter.” Really, they both loved winter. That’s one thing they talked about. The weather. It was this time of year that they could turn off–or at least turn down–the heater. They usually slept with the temperature a little colder than normal. “They used to use the colder weather as an excuse to cuddle”, he thought. But not anymore. They hadn’t cuddled in at least a year. “Wow”, he said in a whisper. “Wow.”
He made one more attempt to stand up. Gingerly he stood up. The pain was still there, but it was now manageable. He looked over past where his pillows lay and she was there. Asleep. Fast asleep.
He thought to himself, “Why can’t you understand me?” “Why don’t you love me?”
— May 3, 2019