Day 136

Towards the end of our married time together there was a moment. We were on a trip, to Chicago. We stayed at the house of a friend of yours. That night, his neighbor threw a big backyard party. You went with the friend, I stayed behind and went to bed - I was running a marathon the next day, and had to wake early.

For awhile I laid awake thinking about the distance between us. How it got there.

I fell asleep to the sound of people murmuring, and music playing low.

You came into the room late, after midnight. I woke to the sound of you undressing in the dark, keys jingling in your pocket. I was almost back asleep when I felt your hand touch my back. Very very lightly - you weren’t trying to wake me. You were just touching me. Maybe trying to do something about that distance. You did not speak. I fell back asleep with the feeling of your hand, soft on my back.

I haven’t let myself think about this weekend for years. Twenty, in fact - it was exactly twenty years ago this weekend - the one coming up day after tomorrow. I flew out this very day.

I talk about signs a lot, how I look for them, how mad I am for not seeing them. Does Coldplay on the radio while a priest crosses in front of my car count, really? S. says yes but she is Catholic, of course she’d think that. I admit it was startling, a priest in his robes on the street isn’t something you see every day. Or even once a year. In fact I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a priest in full ecclesiastical regalia outside of church. Still, I wanted something more personal, less existential. You were an atheist, I doubt even if you could, you’d send a priest into my path. It’s not a message in a language we speak, even if Father N did promise to call me this weekend.

But the feeling of a hand lightly touching the middle of my back - what’s that about?