Impractical Ethics

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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