I crack open an eye: darkness. Turns out I’ve slid beneath pillow level like a man hiding from his responsibilities. I open the other eye and spy the clock – yikes. Either I slept through multiple snoozes or never set the alarm to begin with. Forensics will have to sort it out later.
But for now, my mission is clear: throw on something passable and get downstairs before Suzanne heads to work. It’s a personal policy of mine – show up for the home team’s farewell. Today, though, even “throwing on something passable” proves tricky. I get trapped mid-effort inside my Dodgers hoodie (it’s 6-for-6 this postseason, so this is critical stuff here we’re talking). Just my face pokes out the hood when Suzanne walks in. A lesser person might roll her eyes and do a U-turn. She doesn’t. She smiles a smile that is deeply non-condescending and devoid of pity, and makes me feel like we’ll get through this thing together. She then helps untangle me from the rest of the cotton catacombs, and we head downstairs.
I grab the hefty Braille machine – a tool for turning text into touchable stories for her blind preschoolers. She hands me another bag to carry, this one filled with six soft hedgehogs she made the night before: tiny spikes, tiny smiles, tiny wonders. That’s how she spends her evenings after full days at the school – crafting sensory joy by lamplight while I do battle with things like the remote.
Out by the car, she usually heads for the mailbox by the street to drop off the day’s outbound pieces while I unload things in her car, but today she pauses. I follow her gaze and see it too – one of those sunrises that stops everything. The whole sky spilled orange sherbet and lavender across the neighborhood. We stand there, still as a photograph. Then I take an actual photograph, because magic like that deserves two captures.
We return to resume the rest of our morning ritual: a kiss, a hug, I open her door like it’s a carriage, she backs down the driveway, we blow kisses. And finally, our flourish – we both point up, a quiet gesture that from the outside looks deeply romantic but actually means, “Don’t forget to shut the garage door. Again.”
She drives off, the sky already dimming back to practical blue. I remember to close the garage door, and I’m left holding the echo of that smile. I’m still learning how to fight an enemy I can’t see, one that drains strength quietly and steals from the edges. But that smile? It stays with me. It lights up the long nights and reminds me who I’m getting up for.
That was such a lovely post. Thank you for sharing your beautiful talent for writing with the world.
Thank you. And thank you for sharing your 3-year journey with us.
This was magical. Thank you for letting us be a part of this morning’s miracle. We love you both.
Thank you. Hope you’re doing okay, Karan.
So this love♥️
Thank you, Katie. [heart emoji]
So lovely. Thank you for this.
Thank you for your kind compliment, Roxy.
This is so great on many levels. Love, love, love it!
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Jon!
Why, exactly, do you not have a Pulitzer? Over the years, the exquisite beauty of your writing has made my eyes water so many times, but THIS one brought on a full-on cry. I don’t think any writer has ever captured the meaning of love better than you have here.
Good heavens, Diana. This is maybe the loviest note anyone has ever sent me. Thanks for that and for being a great boss way back there at the beginning of this journey.