The Watcher

51

Days pass and turn into weeks. One day when the weather is nice, I take a long walk. I pass an elderly couple slowly walking along, hand in hand. Their delicate fingers hold each other, and it’s so obvious that they belong together—that they’ve been together for a long time and that they will remain that way until the end. As I pass, the man turns his watery light-blue eyes in my direction and smiles gently.

I have the sense that he’s trying to communicate that life is fragile, that you need to hold on tight to what you love. It’s far too easy to lose each other. I smile back. Sometimes, I think, you lose yourself.

At the park, I sit down on a bench to rest. I have a view of a little girl on a swing, hear her yelling to her dad and asking to be pushed faster. “Higher, higher,” she yells, and when she turns her face in my direction, it startles me. Because the little girl’s coloring is so much like my wife’s; so are her almond-shaped eyes and just the same little dimple in each cheek when she laughs. The likeness is striking. It hits me: She could have been our daughter. And then: What are we doing? What have we done? The last remnants of uncertainty disappear. What had been foggy and dubious no longer is. Everything is so clear, clearer than it has ever been. I quickly get to my feet.

On my way home, there’s something different about my steps, something purposeful. We were only supposed to be in touch if something happened, if one of us made a decision. But something actually has happened, something that made me see the world in a new light. I really want to explain this to my wife. If she would just consider meeting me, I’ll tell her what I’m thinking, what I want.

And then? Then we’ll see.