John came over last evening and we spoke for some time on the front porch.  The old wooden chairs creaked for hours as we rocked slowly and finished a bottle of Chianti.  Scout (my old German Shepherd) lay quietly at my feet, occasionally looking up.  She may have been curious about our conversation, though not enough to say anything.

John and I have known each other since primary school.  Having grown up and lived only several blocks apart our entire lives has created a kind of history which one cannot escape.  We know each other about as well as is humanly possible.  In fact, there are aspects of ourselves which we have never even shared with our spouses… but that we are able to speak of candidly with each other.

Case in point… last evening I spoke to him about my home, and how it does not appear to be as quiet anymore.  My footsteps no longer sound muted, and I can hear the birds outside my window.  The floorboards creak and the third stair leading up to the bedroom needs to be replaced before it breaks completely.  And from my bed, I can actually hear the outside world… not just my breathing.

As soon as the words escaped my mouth, John smiled, took a slow sip of his wine, and told me I had begun to heal… finally.  And I understood.  The act of telling him cemented these feelings, these convictions, and I no longer feel the need to hide them.

It is odd how we live, how we die and how we choose to spend our waking moments.  Further still, it is odd how the body tends to make these choices for us… not the mind.

Listen closely, and you will feel it too.

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