Not Return Home
I almost snuck away to California except my son had climbed the tower again. I called my mother to inform her of the ongoing situation. I'm not sure whether I would have returned home, but my plan was not to, and I didn't care how my husband would feel.
"He's up there again," I said to my mother. She asked if I still planned on coming. "Yes, his father went up after him, they'll be descending soon. I fly out next Tuesday. Please have my room ready."
Assuming myself condemned, I approached my neighbors gathered there at the foot of the tower in the center of town.
"Are they done talking?"
Someone handed me a pair of binoculars. My son was returning to the ground. His father, however, was not.
I married his father when construction on the tower began. At some point, we had a son. I used to admire my husband's enthusiasm for such a mundane task as pouring concrete.
As I walked towards the tower to fetch my son, I noticed the speck of my husband's body. He jumped, and I don't remember if I screamed or ran or stood still, but I know I still didn't care how he would feel if I left.
25 November 2016