The Observer

In the hour before midnight on April 12th, that is when I celebrate my birthday. Don’t ask me how or why I chose that date or the time, I guess it’s just tradition at this point. During my formative years, I spent that hour alone, the stars in the sky my unwaveringly lit birthday candles.

I thought that was normal for my first twenty years–just me, my celestial friends, and the expanse of darkness. I never even felt lonely! I mean, why should I? I have the pleasure of existing in a beautiful, great world, even if it is on the sidelines.

But on my 21st birthday, a friend would greet me in the comfort of silence. He walked up the hill to me and sat down. Our moment of first meeting stretched on for what felt like hours as the minutes ticked down to midnight. 11:57, 11:58, 11:59…

It didn’t take long before he visited me almost every day. The man’s name was John. The wind rustled us through plenty of unspoken conversations during our time together.

It took months before he finally started speaking to me. He told me of his simple life–family, work, and his trivial things that pass the time. But through it all, I learned about his kind heart.

“This is the year,” he said one day, twisting the hem of his shirt in his hands, “this is the one.”

I was touched that he felt brave enough to speak to me–whether his words were through manifestation or belief, in his case I believed they were really different sides of the same coin.

There was nothing I wanted more than for this year to be his, because, in my not so humble opinion, a win for my friend is a win for me. And, to be quite frank, I always enjoyed sitting with him more when he was happy than when he was sad. I don’t even feel bad for saying this because it’s natural–or at least it should be. Who wants to waste their time away with someone miserable?

It turns out, my 21st year was his year. John got everything he wanted and wished for.

In Emily.

He brought her to meet me one summer afternoon.

“This is my favorite friend,” he said, gesturing to me. Emily looked up at me while I peered down at her. The sun made her copper hair sparkle brilliantly. It was the first time I had ever seen a color that vibrant and alive.

But that’s what Emily was to John—the one to make him feel like life is worth living. The other half to make John whole.

The two of them sat with me, their fingers intertwined, her head in his lap.

“I could do this for a lifetime,” she said.

And they would.

Day after day, year after year, John and Emily would spend their lives together.

In life, there are players and there are watchers. I would always be a watcher, an observer, hoping and praying that the players in this crazy game do the best they can with the time they’re given.

You might be asking yourself, were you ever jealous? In some ways, sure, I was jealous. But it’s not that simple.

Jealousy is a complex feeling, one that we oversimplify with ‘yeses’ and ‘nos.’ It’s more gray than black and white, existing on a made up scale that is deeply personal.

I envied the fortitude with which John and Emily loved one another and the ways they supported each other. Throughout my life it had always just been…well, me. But the depths of my loneliness paled in comparison to the onslaught of pain that their hardships could bring to one another.

On my 60th birthday, John came alone.

He held his head in his hands, the two of us sitting together once again. But our once familiarity felt different now. His hair had grayed, the lines etched in his face had deepened.

Now, I wasn’t exactly a spring chicken! But something about watching the ones we love age made life feel so finite. Made it all seem so temporary.

And it was. John was temporary. Emily was temporary. Even I am temporary. We all just have a clock full of time–the hands tick tick ticking their way to a number that acts as our own personal midnight. We don’t know how much time we have, but we’ll know when it’s over.

John knew his clock was about to strike 12. His cancer seeped into his bones.

“I just can’t leave her,” he said, tears running down his face, “I can’t leave her alone.”

I wanted to reach my arm out to him, shade him from this. But I couldn’t. No one could, nor should they. Dying is somehow the most lonely thing we do. Even after a life of chasing meaning and connection, it all ends alone.

Just as I couldn’t protect John, he couldn’t protect his Emily.

John’s time eventually did run out. But, that wasn’t his end. For John gets an epilogue. He will get one with me. John and I will spend eternity together as he lies in the ground beneath my feet. He is a part of me, nurturing me and helping me grow.

Emily would join us shortly after John. The three of us observe the world together, their children and grandchildren visiting often, while they continue playing their own games of life.

More rings are added to my body, each year, as time continues to pass. We grow more distant from “John and his Emily,” now just existing as one.

I’ve had 100 birthdays since the two of them sat with me for the first time. And in that century I’ve learned that all of us are part of a bigger whole. One not existing without the other.

The tree of life extends its branches farther than we can see but close enough for us to reach out and grab with both hands. Grab on tight–it’s waiting for you.