There is something about the palette and startling clarity of fall days that leaves me wanting to hit pause on life and just breathe it in. I stopped in my tracks on the sidewalk three times this morning on the way home from taking the kids to school only because I wanted to remember the rich burgundy of the leaves, the smell of wood burning and the brightness of the blue of the sky.
Jacob did not want to stop, in a hurry to get home to finish his coffee and so he pulled me along by the hand while I daydreamed my way back, pointing out that I could look at the leaves all I wanted on our way into the city to attend therapy.
He was right, and he held my hand again the whole way there and back, never letting go except to get out of the truck and then to go around and get back in after opening my door.
He runs his thumb across the back of my hand as if I am a book and he's reading me in Braille. Which is funny today for some reason because my sight has ratcheted up a notch or twelve to compensate for the remainder of my hearing being gone for over a week now.
If I could turn the tables on him and evaluate his emotions by touch I would say concern is paramount by the tightness of his grip on my hand, by his extra time walking slower so I can keep up, speaking slowly and loudly so I can hear him or at least understand what he wants. We have a system of communicating that seems to be one part telepathy and one part familiarity.
Which is how I got us out of therapy early with one flutter of one hand. Jacob cut it short a moment later and we were off and on our way home again to steal some quiet time before lunch.
Home to discover the carnage inside the garage as he pulled open the door and saw that my gardening area had been smashed to bits. Completely destroyed with his own sledgehammer, which was left in the garage after renovations and was sticking out of the wall halfway up. All of it was intact when we left. The garage door was locked, the side door locked and everything was fine when we left. His tools are untouched. Nothing was stolen.
He's out there talking quietly with the police who showed up to take a report and keeps throwing the word vandalism out as if I don't know who did this. Christ, everyone knows who did it. Or who had it done. Wouldn't want to point fingers or anything.
I asked Jacob if he would just take it all away when they're done. Not to rebuild my shelves or replace the pots or try and figure out what seeds went with what packet. Not to unbend the rakes or watch my panic build as I try to pretend it didn't happen at all. That I never had a potting shed in the garage or that the person who did it took the time to re-lock the lock on the garage so that we wouldn't be forewarned. Or watching Jacob and the police searching the whole house while I returned to school to pull the kids out simply because the amount of damage screams rage to me and I wanted to have my eyes on them at all times.
What a way to end the week, changing locks again. Police cars again. Evil, again.