Sunday morning solitude. That used to be my routine. Every Sunday. Me. The apartment. The cats. Housework. The gym. Work for work. That routine is gone. The apartment is gone. The solitude is gone. But, added is a richness, a fullness that was only there fleetingly.
Walking to work this week around that perfect cal du sac with its immaculately manicured lawns and scrubbed clean recycling bins, I saw an older man standing on his driveway. He wore a plaid shirt-jacket and dark colored fleece pants. His back was to me, but by his stance and the hunch of his shoulders I could tell he was trying to light a cigarette. Ive seen Chris stand like that countless times. And then, my attention was caught by noise off to the side. A smaller white haired woman in bright pink yoga pants and matching jacket was fussing with something on the lawn. Obviously, the two of them had taken the garbage and recycling out together. He had lingered to have a cigarette on the driveway, and she had scurried ahead to tidy something on their way back in the house.
It washed over me as I watched that scene: that is Chris and I. In however many years, I could be wearing that pink yoga pant suit, and he will have a greying wife beater on under that plaid shirt.
Growing old together. Not being alone. It warms me to my toes. It takes my breath away.