“There he is.”
My husband was standing
under a tree,
looking at his phone.
My daughter and I were walking
through our apartment parking lot.
“We’re heading out,”
I said.
“Have fun,”
he replied.
As we got into the car,
my daughter smiled.
“Dad seems more comfortable
around you these days.”
Earlier that afternoon,
he had sounded
a little irritated
at the table.
Normally,
I would have wondered
what was wrong.
Was he tired?
Was something bothering him?
Should I do something?
This time,
I simply thought,
There it is.
That was all.
I started the car,
and we drove away.
My daughter smiled,
and so did I.
Mid-point
The story never came.
The Story Never Started
The conversation
ended there.
No one tried
to explain him.
No one tried
to figure out
what was going on.
No one tried
to fix anything.
For years,
I believed
every feeling
came with
a story.
A story
my mind created
to make sense
of what I was feeling.
Every story
needed
an answer.
I didn’t realize
how often
someone else’s mood
had quietly shaped
the direction
of my own day.
This time,
I went
to the driving range.
The afternoon breeze
felt cool
after the rain.
I filled my tumbler
with iced decaf Americano,
played music,
and enjoyed
my usual rhythm.
The sound of the clubs,
the breeze after the rain,
and the quiet rhythm
were enough.
My attention
stayed
with my own afternoon.
When I came home,
my husband
was asleep.
Later,
he woke up
and said,
“I don’t know
why I’m so tired.”
“You drank last night,”
I said.
“The hangover
is worse
than I thought,”
he replied.
He ate
the peach
I had sliced,
watched baseball,
enjoyed
a bowl of cold noodles,
and seemed to feel
much better.
Nothing had needed
my story.
This time,
it never came.
