Long-Distance Commuter

He always leaves me with something...

Photo by Justin Cron on Unsplash

Long-Distance Commuter

Five hours in the driver's seat, a light is left on to guide him those last few yards through the front door and past a kitchen smelling of Lysol. Dog hair is swept away from the corners. I wade through it all week until just before he arrives. Exhausted from a whirlwind of cleaning, I fall into bed and wait. He feels his way to his side of the bed like a stranger having to reintroduce himself. A dinner or two in candlelight, we talk about our separate worlds, friends neither of us meets. It all sounds like a news report and soon wanes like a night breeze. We're face-to-face, fleeting eye contact. After two days, he departs again to work in a far off place where I never go.

He always leaves me with something after he's left for work in the city. He leaves the warm bed sheets slowly cooling, cats bunching together in empty blankets; days without his laughter and twisted jokes; his libertarian take on the world, and the assurance that when something breaks, he will fix it.

I attempt to regain sleep after our four a.m. Monday ritual. I watch his car turn the corner and flash between houses on the other side of the block. I live my life in the country, knowing he’ll return to my arms. Though I know he loves me and will re-enter my life, his absence merely a petite mal space in time, I spend many days lost in thoughts of running away from my pain, like the Siamese tried in her last moments of life. This cancer of separation is never really numbed by the panacea of his love.

He spent so many years far away. It ground him down. Placed a wedge between him and his home. It seems so foreign to him. His age doesn’t match his years. The numbers don’t add up and steal the pleasant tune of coming days. As we enter the later years of our allotted time, he joins me in a dance around our frailties that set the pace for a slower tempo. A waltz rather than a tango. We dance together now. I no longer sit waiting against the wall, but lead him across the floor, show him new steps he must learn to dance with me again.

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You can read more from Sue Cauhape on her page, “Ring Around the Basin”:

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