Balance

I love to write. My social media posts frequently take more room than one or two sentences with a smiley face emoticon. In fact, to read most of my posts, one has to click on a subtle reminder that the author doesn’t understand the concept of “brief.”  I write in emails, too. I send page after page of crafted prose that will disappear as soon as it’s read, but I can’t help it.

Writing is a solitary pursuit, and I stared at my computer screen, unable to focus on my words. Instead, I concentrated on Sandi and what she’d said. She wanted a date night to spend some time with me. Nothing fancy, just a film we’ve seen before. We’d sit in a love seat and snuggle, holding hands, holding hearts and watch the story unfold.

Sandi knows my compulsion, none better. She encouraged me to set my first words to paper, spoke up to my writing mentor when I lacked boldness and sought guidance for me to polish my craft. She’s read every word, every revision I’ve written and is so proud of any success I’ve enjoyed.

I couldn’t write without her.

She works overnight and, even though her work week comes to an end on Sunday morning, it takes her a full day to recover. On her three-day weekend, she’s adrift. She doesn’t adjust easily—no one does—and she dozes through the day as though she’s trying to stockpile rest for work nights when she knows she’ll need it. The rest of the week, our evenings are filled with hectic preparation for the nights we spend apart.

And now, all she asks is a few minutes to spend by my side. I lowered the screen on my laptop and called up the stairs.

“Sandi, the movie’s ready.”