When you fly solo as long as I have, you forsake any chance for pleasurable, intimate moments:
You tote favorite takeout inside for an expectant family. A grandson dozes while watching “Kung Foo Panda.” Your spouse smiles from the bathroom mirror. You wake to find her fingers still tangled in your hair.
Your list can grow as long as memory remains.
Instead, you might settle for a memorable meal, contemplative walk or prayer to St. Brigid. Perhaps it’s a theatrical event or thunder from a roiling storm.
Yet even these experiences are empty when you’re alone. To share such moments is vital. Without them, you must create your own intimacy or go mad.
Household accomplishments, while meager substitutes, can help. A change of bedding, for example, with fresh sheets, bedspread properly aligned and pillows fluffed and in their places, can bring some satisfaction.
Other examples might be re-sorted bookcases, a sparkling bathroom or your strewn work table finally cleared and dusted.
Yet such domestic options, as personal as they seem, lack the warming intimacy of moments you left behind long ago.
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