Today

Today

You haven’t let him in. He seems delightful, persistent, and patient. The first day I saw him, the car pulled up and he stepped out of the passenger seat looking dapper in his three-piece suit, holding a bouquet of lilies. He made his way to your porch and rang the bell. You opened the door, greeted him briefly, accepted the flowers and sent him back down the walk.

It’s been weeks now, and he still doesn’t make it past the front porch. I feel that his driver and I collectively hold our breath to see if today will be the day.

Years have passed since your husband last came up the walk. You no longer cry when his name is mentioned. I’m sure you didn’t think that would ever happen but is your grief still stronger than your loneliness?

Does he not ask to come inside? Or is he waiting for an invitation? Yesterday you stepped outside with movements so slow and subtle, it was hard to pinpoint the precise moment you joined him on the porch.

I wanted to ask you about him today as you tended to your roses. I didn’t. We nodded to each other, I picked up my paper and ventured back into the house, keeping an eye for your visitor.

Is there something he can say that will get him across the threshold? Will you step outside today? Will you sit on the porch swing? Or would it be too hard? You used to sit out there with your husband, him pushing the swing back and forth with his foot, you tucking the blanket under your legs.

Or is today the day you don’t answer the door? Or he doesn’t come. Is today the day this ends or the day this blossoms into something delightful?