For days we hiked through canyons and up dry washes, marching to our separate iPod beats, unplugging from time to time to compare notes, agreeing some stupendous natural form up ahead was “pretty.” Every few hundred steps were punctuated by a loud staccato cough, some snuffling, and then Chuck would spit. I practiced relaxing my face, trying to melt my pinch-y judgmental wince, but I seemed threaded to him like a marionette and each episode of hacking scrinched me up.
I watched his shadow as he traversed a big flat rock, his head bobbing to the Blues. Chuck’s corporate nickname is “the Sphinx” and for twenty years I studied him from every angle, searching for fissures in his façade. He hates this. Using female sonar I conduct soundings at depth, chart my findings, generate comparisons. Now it is second nature, and instead of drifting free like a tumbleweed, mentally cart wheeling over the immense desert, I find myself trudging along, connecting some dots from earlier conversations, wondering if he is happy to be here, even though he has this terrible cold.
Oh, I could ask him, but he would give a non-response that offers no grip, something like “I’m happy if you’re happy.” He might flex his eyebrows like Groucho or waggle his head, glorying in his unshaven, un-groomed “outdoor” look. When lunchtime comes we sit adjacent and fish around for something to say. Damn, twenty years ago I thought this would never happen. Then everything glinted, a knife-edge of newness, every moment cut both ways. Back then silent riffles in the breeze flowed between us. From thousands of miles away I would feel him think of me, warm air softening my cheek. Really. Now he’s up close, twenty-four seven, and I tap and clatter around his perimeter wielding the white cane of blind familiarity.
It turns out he is legally blind, but no one noticed until he was twelve. This explains his marginal facial recognition skills and alarming independence. When he sees, through thick lenses, the world is data rich, maybe too rich. He captures information, labels and files it, then retreats to his land of internal musings, fuzzy outlines. We communicate best by Braille, his calm hand over mine, no words, no worries. My decades of monthly dissertations on intimacy, usually delivered during the full moon, never defined us near as much as his hand, quiet, on mine.
When at last run I out of words and stand still beside him I feel the smoothness, the sameness of his hand resting on mine. I look again into the screen, and see what he saw that day: a broad, uninterrupted desert under a high blue sky; a heart shaped cloud barely outlined in the salty current; and me, in the center of the silence, warm in my red puffy vest.
I see the Sphinx loves me.
Your words flow and color the Images in my mind and draw me in. I’m excited to know you are sharing his photographs along with your words. Thank you for sharing these memories/images. ❤️
Lovely piece and gorgeous photos. If this means you just married, congratulations.
unique and beautiful images…your writing created the ability for me to visualize the serene environment… Congratulations to you and Chuck on a beautiful life together!