Leaning In

The more the years wear us as garments to be changed and molded, the more I wish to lean in and wrap myself in his cloak of warmth and exasperating opposition.

I appreciate literature and self-study, the art of the word and the beauty in the flow of language itself. He rarely enters into a discourse, but

speaks in phrases, to the point, without innuendo.

I will ponder solutions to a problem. He will state the “obvious” and foregone conclusions will arise, his words hanging like a thick cloud of smoke, opaque and obvious.

I will reflect, he will not.

I am easily brought to engagement, nervous energy, and impassioned opinions, abated only when the eruption is complete. He will not engage much in excited repartee, rather

take up the position of antagonist, triggering more by offering less. Then laughter once the prize is won- my annoyance.

The ease by which he solicits conversation, and fellowship is to be admired, if grudgingly. His affability and generosity is well noted and in turn sticks a pin of resentment in my side. A shoulder, a shirt, money, countless good deeds set him on the road to acclimation.

I revere education and hard work. He reveres hard work and education.

Order fuels my contentment, chaos is natural to him having little consequence to how he embraces each moment.

And the years, one fitting perfectly into another, like Russian stacking dolls each holding memories of sorrow, contentment, joy and uncertainty, ever growing taller

towards the day we bid farewell to the last incumbent of home

and try to balance the differences of priority and habit, our souls reaching out together and leaning in toward the end where we will learn to play with a rhythm

uniquely our own.

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