Waiting for Homer

All of my adult life, I looked forward to my special “quiet” time away from the people in my life. It seemed the only time I could rejuvenate my spirit was when I was alone. I loved the people in my life, but sometimes they seemed to take up too much space – wanted to control my behavior – somehow always THERE – too big – too loud – innocently but roughly intruding into my mental sanctuary. Needing too much from me.

I never thought this would change until I met Homer. Now, when my husband leaves for an overnight trip, I find the house empty and still. He’s a quiet man, so it’s not an absence of noise. His spirit is missing – the powerful, gentle hum of his soul. There is a void in the house where he should be. The dogs sense it and constantly look out the window for his car, looking mournful and lost. They come in from the yard and go into every room, looking for Dad. I clean and clean – my therapy and relaxation – but once I’m done, the house feels like a sterile museum – a warmth is missing. There seem to be more shadows in the corners.

I’ve known Homer all my life. I was born knowing him. On the edge of my circle of consciousness, he was always there. I didn’t actually meet him until I was in my forties, but I knew he was in this world long before then. So I waited. And, at times, wondered if he had gone from me and I had somehow taken a wrong road and missed him.

Night falls and I lock up the house more carefully than usual, pulling blinds shut against the darkness. I listen for the sounds of his room down the hall at night – the ticking of the old German clock, the constant singing of crickets on CD – but somehow in my need for quiet, I’ve stilled those too. The house is silent. The dogs don’t bark. I can hear myself breathe and hear the beating of my heart.

As I go through my second day alone, I enjoy the meditative quality of the golden fall morning and afternoon, lighting incense, playing mellow music, but always listening for Homer’s step. I see signs of him everywhere. A fence latched to a wooden railing, birdfeeders hanging out of reach of a prowling bear, the firewood stacked neatly, Homer’s pond with the golden leaves reflected on its mirrored surface, the bat house he painted blue. There is a new railing he installed so I could walk down the steps more easily when I hurt my back. There’s the doggie door he added making it easy for one of our elderly dogs to come and go outside, giving her great joy. I think what this house would be like without Homer and realize that I would not want to live here without him. He is the force behind our home – the one who takes action to make it work. I have my intuitive ways of creating harmony, but none of it would work without Homer. We are a balance – a perfect Yin/Yang – the way male and female should be – equal, in balance, living together in a constant-changing dance. When I lag behind, he pulls me up. When he is tired, I soothe him. But one without the other is incomplete. There is a yearning for something unique that we only find in each other. And I love him more every day.

Homer is a man in the best sense of the word. In place of control, there is gentle strength. In place of dominance, there is a letting go. In place of having to prove himself as a man – there is a deep, hard-earned knowledge and wisdom. With Homer, I am less shrill, less scattered. He is the center and smoothes all the jagged edges surrounding him.

I sit here writing this and hear the wind. The gold and red leaves are falling and I can smell winter in the distance. I can feel Homer’s presence down in the low-country of S.C. as if there is a golden thread strung between us. I know when he will leave and begin his drive home as the dogs know. We all begin to move more quickly in anticipation, even though he won’t be home for hours. We listen for the sound of the tires on the gravel drive as night falls. We listen for Homer, waiting for him to fill us up with his strength and love. We wait for the warm sunlight to come back into our home. We wait.

Tibby Dozier Steedly