The man next door
“He loved you; you
know that.” said the woman who was his partner for 15 years. He was an old, somewhat
crotchety man who had a cabin next door to mine up in the Sierras. He had
emphysema and still smoked, with his oxygen tank next to him like some kind of
obedient puppy. He told me of his massive collection of DVDs and would invite
me over to watch movies. I would always bow out. He would see me working on my
½ acre - clearing, hauling wood, whatever needed doing. And occasionally would
make comments of a slightly suggestive nature. I would feel a little
uncomfortable. Thinking about it, I would realize he probably meant well, though
his communication sometimes seemed crude to me.
His partner
He passed away last
week. His partner was standing in front of me, shaking, distraught. I am fond
of her, so I hugged and comforted her, encouraging her to breathe and to allow
herself to feel instead of swallowing and pushing down her grief. “I suppose I
can carry wood” she said. “Yes, that would be good. Carry wood.” I reply.
Love?
We are part of a very
small, rural community. Many of us have a closeness and are sort of family. If
I had thought about it, I knew the old man cared for me, was fond of me, and yet love? I think to myself: “No, I
didn’t know he loved me”, though I can see the love in my memories of him, such as how
he kept an eye on my cabin when I wasn’t around. Or the happiness that came
through our exchange when we first saw each other after the evacuation for the
wild fires was lifted. Thank you, sister, for the lesson and
reminder. Yes, love can look very different than our expectations allow.
