Walking back toward the house, removing my work gloves, I can see him remarkably well through the window -- the kitchen light illuminates him. At the top of the hill, I drop my gloves and drink from my water bottle. Standing there in the thickening dark, I watch him, his head and shoulders lowered over some task on the kitchen counter. He's chopping carrots, maybe.
He lifts his head and eyebrows, turns to his right. Only his left side is visible to me now, and his profile seems less focused, his posture now less task-oriented. He's talking to someone, but I can't see the person. Maybe his children have come home early, I think.
He purses his lips and raises his chin, lifting it outward as he tilts his head. He's thinking or listening, maybe, considering some request made in earnest about the necessity of having root beer with dinner. He nods slightly, slowly, as if in agreement with what the other person has to say.
I smile. The kid must be prefacing this particular request with a bit of logic. Perhaps they're talking about more than root beer.
Then, suddenly, he brings his hands to his face, covering it. His shoulders sag then slowly rise and fall with a deep breath.
His hands drop. He frowns and shakes out his arms as he does when his hands grow fatigued from trying to keep up when we play guitar. Then he straightens his back, lifts his head, and the line of his shoulders again rises and falls with an inhalation, an exhalation.
Something's wrong, I think. I should go in. Who's he talking to? I wonder again.
But then he does the strangest thing: he walks around the kitchen island, into the dining room, kneels within view of the patio door, and looks up. Is he ... praying?
I'm stupefied. As I approach the window, I realize that he's kneeling on one knee. There is no one in the room with him.
My god, he's rehearsing.
Created: Feb 23, 2014MsDoomface Document Media