It was a sunny but cold Sunday in Toronto. As I spotted the perfect bench overlooking the Grenadier Pond at High Park, I quickened my pace so no one would beat me to it. Two adjoining benches at the right elevation, away from the walking path that’s filled with people who have only come to see the Cherry Blossoms. Peace and view together.
An elderly couple eating lunch sat on the bench to the left. They fed a chipmunk little pieces of bread, although feeding animals is not encouraged in this park. Old people, they think they know everything just because they’ve lived more years in a very different world from ours.
They ate in silence and spoke sparingly. I guess when you’ve spent decades together, you only need a few words to communicate. Raised eyebrows, gleaming eyes, a smile followed by a smirk, everything is observed and known, unlike a couple who’s just getting to know each other.
I have a vision of the “perfect” man. Us reading our separate books on a park bench. We are cuddling but focused totally on the books. At certain intervals, we stop and check in. I read my favorite paragraph out loud and see what that sparks in him. Then we go back to our respective books. A relationship intertwined in separate worlds and fused in safety with a long-term binding agent.
I love the mundanity of a relationship. This is where it really shines or cries out in desperation. The weekends that are filled with coffee shops, brunches, family obligations, movies, grocery shopping, cooking, washing the car, and fixing the tap. That feeling of sharing the ordinary with someone else, a witness, a person who can’t say no to going to watch Othello and The Nutcracker, even when they have no special interest.
But what happens when the relationship ends? The mundanity has to fold into one person. And how well it folds depends on how much space we have created within ourselves for safety and delight.
