Walking adults

 

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I was sitting in the door way of my new home, lap top perched on my knees, soaking up the sun when I saw him walk by. He didn’t notice me. His pace brisk and determined. I remember I had on my favorite red sweat pants. I was close to talking myself out of following him. I had a mountain of work to do. It’s why the kids were with mom. Something nudged me to put down the lap top and catch up to him.

“Hey dad!”

“Oh! Hi”

It took me a while to figure out if he was happy to have me on his walk. It’s true that the first ten minutes of our walk was in silence., aside from the short observations of how beautiful our surroundings were. It was enough to be there with him seeing all of this.

I’m not sure who opened the conversation but we both fell quite easily in to it. We were in a shared space in our adult lives. Where we had gone from spending only non working hours with our spouses to spend 24 hours a day 7 days a week with them. He and I were bumping in to some of the same hiccups that are bound to happen in this sort of transition. We shared, honestly and openly. It was the first time I remember being an adult with him.

I was always daddy’s little girl. I loved the role in fact. It was how we interacted a lot of time. Me adoring him, him adoring me along with the inevitable strong willed confrontations that come out of that sort of adoration. This was a new territory. This was a place where we were both married adults sharing our struggles, supporting each other, laughing and really lifting up each others burdens if only for the moments of the conversation.

It was the last loop through the estuary, along the ocean road and back home again that the two of us would take alone together. And I am eternally grateful for noticing how beautiful it was to be a trusted adult confidant to him then. To know he saw me that way. ┬áBut mostly, I am glad I left my laptop, my pile of work on the doorstep and embraced this fleeting moment. I can recall the details oh so vividly each time I walk that loop and it’s what fills in the spaces of missing him, even if it’s just for the briefest of moments.

 

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