When I wake up, I’m confused. I have to lie in bed for a few minutes to get my bearings. What day is it?  Wednesday.

Now that I’m an old man, this habit of review before my feet hit the floor has become a daily necessity. I run through my obligations. What do I have to do? Where do I have to go? What is expected of me today?  I decide whether or not it’s worth getting up. Should I turn over and give up? Some days giving up is the more attractive option, but I never do.

I look over and see my wife is still asleep or pretending to be asleep. I’m never sure anymore. 

When we were young we touched while we slept. I would know from her motions and the feel of her skin against mine if she was sleep. I would watch her dreaming. Her face untroubled or flashing with quick emotions. Was she dreaming of me?

If she was beginning to rouse for the day, she might turn toward me, reaching out her hand to my body, always easily within her grasp. Our skin moist, warm and smooth; an invitation.

Now, though, it seems we sleep like wooden soldiers in a box. Each of us with our arms at our sides in our own self-made slots, never venturing over the demilitarized zone in the middle of the bed. Well, maybe ‘never’ is too strong a word-perhaps ‘seldom’ is more accurate. We are wrapped in layers of cotton and flannel, socks and long sleeves, ointments and lotions, cracked and dry.

When did that begin?  

She is unmoving, snoring slightly. I am almost sure she is not pretending as she sometimes does to insure I will be the first one up and obliged to take the dog out and make the coffee.

Then as my muddled mind clears, I remember the dog died years ago. There is no need for me to force myself to hurry down the stairs, my feet unslippered, my robe untied, my bladder burning.

I remember, again today is Wednesday. There are no difficult tasks ahead of me today, no appointments with doctors or dentists. No car repairs or yard work needing my attention. I keep my head on the pillow and search my mind for some dreaded event and find none. No one is sick. No one has died. My wife is holding her own.

 An unexpected feeling of optimism floods me. I look out the large window that faces the yard. The birch tree is dancing in the breeze showing its textured bark, its tiny leaves shimmering. The beach grass sways, green shoots topped with bright fall tassels. The sun is rising over the evergreen boarder.  It is peaceful.

I sit up slowly and swing my body around as gently as possible. I put my feet on the rug and slide into my slippers. As I stand, I notice the familiar pains in my knees, my hips and my shoulder. I begin to groan, then decide maybe the pain isn’t as bad as it was yesterday.

I look down at my wife and notice a strand of her hair has fallen over her cheek in a most lovely way. It is more silver now than blond. But this morning, in this light filtered by the lace curtain, her face is unlined. It is the face of the girl wearing the Annie Hall tie who came laughing into the bar with her girlfriends that long ago night.  Am I still that strong young man with the afro and aviator shades on the bandstand with dreams of stardom?  Maybe some mornings.

I gently smooth the wayward lock of hair behind her ear. If I can slip out of the bedroom quietly enough I can go down to the kitchen and make her breakfast. I will serve us in bed where we can sit and plan our day.