Monday, February 20, 2012


I love hearing him move around the house.

I sit on the couch reading my book and hear sounds from another room, and I don't have to ask what he's doing to know.

He listens to my Pandora account on his phone while he gets ready because he doesn't know how to set up his own. He runs a slow stream of warm water in the kitchen sink as he does the dishes, scrubbing every one completely clean before loading them into the dishwasher. When he blows his nose, I know he has folded toilet paper into a perfect little square first. He clicks his mouse over and over as he sits in his chair because he is playing a silly computer game from which he earns "badges," aka, clip art on a website, a reward that is strangely motivating for this 32-year-old. He takes the laundry out of the dryer after it plays its little song because he and I both know that he folds towels much better than I do. When he balances the checkbook, he crumples up the receipts into little balls and throws them on the living room floor in a pile, which he will pick up later and take to the trash.

Every sound he makes in this house is a reminder that I know him.

And most of the sounds he makes in this house are a reminder that he is taking care of me.
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