She Me Us

The left shoe of a worn pair of Canvas All Stars is under the barstool. The right is on its side under the dining table, toe pointing towards its mate. A purple duffle bag stuffed with clothes is on the Windsor chair. Textbooks and notebooks are cracked open on the dining table. A stack of photography books on the coffee table. On the green chair is her camera, and the sweater she wishes it was cold enough to wear.

Tired from a long day, I pull my car into the garage beside hers. Thinking about dinner and her homework and what I need to take care of tonight so that I don't have to wake at 4:00 tomorrow morning, I take a breath and turn the knob.

Her familiar voice, excited, Hi Aunt Alison!

Music. Her living here is music to me.

She changes the rhythm, adds colors that melt and run together, adds lift and glow to my world.

She studies Biology at the dining table while I make our salads, spread sauce on the pizza crust, sprinkle the cheese and place in the oven. I tell her, In 20 minutes, dinner will be ready.

There's value in routine, meaning in the mundane. I return emails while she studies. We eat our dinner, laugh as Cheyenne and her cat, Flo, test the space between them, us and the food. We talk about the day. Her day, my day. We float our words to tomorrow.

I have to work late and then stay at Mom's tomorrow night, you'll take care of Cheyenne?

She tells me she will, asks me to wake her up before I go to work in the morning.

Little plans, small details, schedules and favors between a team of two.

She gets up to do the dishes. I lean back into the couch, and watch her, love her.

Every morning when I leave to work, and each night when I go to bed, the exchange between us is my telling her how happy I am that she's here with me, and her telling me how happy she is to be here.

Like the dimly lit theater after the show is over, it many ways, it's the best part.