He was home. The loud sound of the knife hitting the cutting board once it cut through whatever he was cutting left no doubt that he was home. Shortly after that the sound of running water and the smell of onions cooking let me know he was in for at least the amount of time it would take for him to cook, clean, eat and clean up. Depending on what he was cooking and how he chose to make it would determine the length of time required for him to be in the house.
The dogs hadn’t let me know that he was home, but then they hardly ever bark unless I want them to be quiet!😉 And he hadn’t said a word to me since he came in. Not that I knew exactly when that was either. We weren’t speaking to one another. Who knew packing a suitcase could bring on a whole new Cold War?
So the suitcase brought out a whole new topic of discussion. A discussion that at times got heated, got loud and perhaps wasn’t really a discussion. After that the suitcase sat where it was left and a strange silence had filled the house. We had become two people who were living in the same space, but were no longer living together.
It was inevitable I suppose. Both of us having dreams, desires and lifestyles that we simply couldn’t seem to mesh together. We thought splitting time in two different spaces when possible would help solve the problem. But the suitcase held words that hadn’t been said before, but somehow become unpacked for us to hear prior to being packed up again.
Now he was preparing his meal, which from the smell of things was potato soup and bread. He taught me how to make bread, but somehow it never tastes as good as when he makes it. And I knew there would be more than enough bread and soup for me to join him, but why bother? We would just be two people sitting st a table eating the same meal, but the Grand Canyon would rest between us. No sense making this more uncomfortable than it already is.
When I was learning to ride a bike and it wasn’t going well, I decided to give up. Weeks upon weeks of disaster had left my young heart battered and bruised and my confidence in crumbs. My daddy was probably as crushed as I was, certainly his patience was frayed beyond repair when he asked me if I really wanted to learn to ride.
What an odd question, I thought because of course I wanted to learn how to ride! To a young child, learning to ride a bike was freedom. How could he think I didn’t want to learn to ride?
Once my daddy knew I wanted to learn how to ride he offered me this little bit of advice that has held through out my life…if you want something enough you will fight for it. Was that the thing that was missing here? We weren’t fighting for us? Did he not want to make things work? Was I afraid of the hard work required?
He left a bowl of soup to warm and a nice thick slice of bread on the table with a note, a note that said he missed me, and he was hoping the way to a woman’s heart was the same as it was to a man’s…through honest, good food. And somehow the food might be magical, might bridge the gap and erase the words. Food and love, to him, go hand and hand when it comes to magical properties.