I first noticed the gradual
introduction of a change over a year ago, when he started carrying that Singer's
book everywhere. At first it only seemed to peripherally effect his
life, and I let him conduct it as offered him the most
happiness.
“Day by day, day by day...” he
sang, eagerly swinging himself out of bed, feet landing firmly on the
floor. I leaned toward him, and observed as he flexed his toes in
the luxurious rug by his bedside. Then he confidently prepared
himself for the day's duties. As he made to leave, he stopped at the
door and turned sheepishly towards my repose.
“Dear,” he said with such guilt and
enthusiasm in his eyes, I nearly laughed, “I can't believe I forgot
to tell you, but I'm volunteering at the local food shelter after
work today. I won't be home in time for dinner.”
I looked at him, eyes mirroring his
joy, “That's worthy of an apology?”
“The inconvenience, the adjustment to
your schedule, the insensitivity of failing to inform you.”
“The only reason for an apology is
failing asking me to attend with you. Have a great day, and invite
me next time.”
He close the door and I prepared for my
day.
The next day, he offered an invitation,
and we became weekly regulars at the local shelter.
….
“One day, when the glory comes...”
he sang as he stuck his landing, and stepped from the mat. It'd been
sixth months since that first day, and there was barely a night when
I saw him at home, and when I did, it was with his eyes transfixed by
his 10th reading of that book. I found so many aspects of
his character in flux, it was impossible to pinpoint any single
alteration. Sometimes I wanted to grab him, crush him to myself,
hoping to halt the changes, trap him in the time, encircled by my
arms. But instead, I watched each morning, transfixed, almost eager
for this metamorphosing creature to leave, so I might prepare for my
predictable day at work.
That day, in an astonishing recurrence
of six months ago, he paused at the door and we reenacted our prior
conversation, only with a different focus. Was it ok, he asked, if
he might donate a portion of our income to a collection of charities?
I had never questioned his spending,
and he'd never disputed mine, for we had always lived life within our
means, supporting the children, saving for the future. To his
inquiry, I involuntarily replied, “Of course.”
The moment the door shut, I slammed my
fists futilely into the pillow he'd vacated. How had he failed to
recognize my escalating disquiet for his increasing absence? Did the
fault reside in his obliviousness or my forbearance? My mind
wouldn't let me evade my agonizing feelings so easily, for I was
desperately clinging to a hope that his past behavior would reassert
itself over this infection.
….
“Glory, glory, glory,
glory...” he sang, feet landing heavily upon the bare floor. Yet
he bound up as if propelled by a trampoline. A year later, when he
bothered to speak, he could only talk of this Singer, but he didn't
bother anymore. Instead, he'd become mute in my presence, and though
my finger did occasionally point accusatorily
at myself, more often it aimed toward his intransigence. But by this
morning my mind had foolishly assumed our current situation was a
culmination, that we had scraped the sky with only the possibly of
downward travel, and was even hopeful of a return to normalcy.
Then he spoke, again,
repeating this rare and vicious torture, which he failed to recognize
as such.
“I'm going to where works
needs to be done,” he said.
I stared blankly at him.
“For six months, some
place destitute and in need, through one of the charities I've worked
with. I thought now would be a perfect time to travel, as the
children have move on, so you don't need me here.”
I think I intended to
interrupt his innocent interpretation of my opinion, for I found
myself as if flung onto the floor, but he was already out the door.
I righted my body if not my mind, and clasped one of the bed poles,
as if were the only solid object in an intangible universe. After an
indeterminable amount of time, I found myself, and my solution.
….
I haven't seen him, since
that day. Yet, I can imagine him waking from his pallet, singing,
“One song, glory, one song...” as he flexes his toes in the dirt
floor of his living quarters, perhaps torn between the exhaustion and
exaltation of his life. I called him before he boarded his flight,
to inform him that there was no need for him to return. At my
declaration, although I couldn't see his face, I heard a sigh escape
his chest, which sounded as if he'd been freed from bondage.
I believe, that when he left
our room that morning, his conscious mind intended to return, but
deep down, he'd already planned a total abandonment of his past life.
With my words I'd stripped the unseen shackles from his wrists,
though I didn't intend to emancipate him, but rather myself from the
tyranny of his reckless charity.
….
Unsurprisingly this conclusion didn't
lend itself to resolution, and the feelings and questions burrowed
deep inside, until one day I had to speak to him. I spent more than
was reasonable in my quest to have just a few words with him. He'd
traveled far, beyond easy modes of communication.
I won't share the specific words of our
conversation. Just know, speak...
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