Maria and I argued for a while about whether or not I should go with her to her belly dancing rehearsal tonight. She still has bouts of fatigue, and I said I would be safe just being around, sitting outside in the car, reading a book, watching something on Netflix, or going shopping.

She said she felt it was something she needed to do by herself, but the argument went back and forth. Maria and I have learned not to push opinions too far. If we start repeating ourselves, our voices ride, then we stop and wait and pick it up later.

I told her if it were me, she would insist on going with me if I was still dealing with Covid. I wanted to go to Bishop Maginn today, and that argument got hot quickly. No way you should go and drive yourself today, it’s an hour and a half either way, and you admit to being exhausted in the afternoon, which is when you’d be going home.

I had good reason to worry. A dozen times in the past week, she nearly passed out from sudden exhaustion and just made it to the couch. It has gotten better, but it still happens.

I understood what was unspoken. I’m older than Maria and certainly a bit more vulnerable. I know I’m not ready to make that drive myself, and I imagine Maria can handle it. She is very sensible, and she’d call me or ask one of the other dancers to drive her home if she had trouble.

I dropped it. She needed to know she could do it, and she needed to know she could get to it by herself. I disagreed with her, but so what? I respect her and her judgment, and it’s her decision, not mine.

We did agree that I would come with her tomorrow night when she performed with the other belly dancers at the Bennington Museum. Two performances, an hour apart. No argument, I said; I’m coming. Okay, she said, I want you to come. She’s in good hands with that group. They watch out for one another.

She looked strong and clear when she left and promised to stay in touch with me. When she left, I stopped worrying about it. I went out to the pasture and sat on a log next to Robin, my new contemplative friend.

Robin is always out by the water bucket these days, usually by himself, and he has no trouble with my sitting down on a log next to him. We’ve bonded a bit.

Sometimes I bring him something to eat. Mostly I don’t. We sat quietly together this afternoon; I was only a log away – he didn’t mind Zinnia coming either – and watched the sunset. Nobody is afraid of Zinnia on this farm.  I don’t speak to him other than to say hello and goodbye, but we are keenly aware of one another’s presence.

Robin is not one of those intuitive animals like Zinnia or the donkeys. He doesn’t give a shit if I’m sick or upset or feeling melancholic. Nor does he bother to sense my emotions.  But I think he likes the company. We seem easy with one another, and he is often skittish around people.

I got tired and felt hot out in the pasture, I started sweating, and my head was fogging up a bit, as it does with Covid. I got up, said goodbye to Robin, came into the house, washed the dishes, cleaned up, made myself a chocolate-flavored plant smoothie (no natural sugar), got a bowl of cherries, and brought them both into my office.

I turned on the air conditioner, uploaded some pictures, and put the phone next to me so I’d hear if Maria called. I remembered our first days of being together when she would drive her toilet bowl of a car, a  Toyota Yarus, to work and back in storms and blizzards and on icy roads with no snow tires.

Those were some of the longest days of my life, those snowy Sundays in those blizzards. She always made it home, which my mechanic and I thought was a miracle. It was just something she had to do.

Finally, I found someone to love, and there she was every harsh winter day on icy, unplowed roads risking her life in a car with as much grip as a lawn mower.

I spent most of the day in the storm staring out the window until I saw those tiny lights slowly climbing and spinning up the hill. She would never once take my car, which had four-wheel drive.

I thought of ways of torching her car or pouring sugar into the oil tank. When we moved to this farm, the car had the good graces to rot. I managed to get enough involved in the purchase of her new (used) car to make sure it had all-wheel drive and snow tires.

Perhaps because she is younger, she doesn’t yet feel the need to show her vulnerability or acknowledge it. And she needs to prove herself again and again.

I’ve never heard her whine or complain. I’ve long given up on being tough and brave. And her need for independence and self-sufficiency saved her life and allowed her to blossom as an artist.

I’ll never quite feel easy about her driving in an icy storm alone, but I’ll never hound her about it, except occasionally.

For love to bloom, you have to work at it. You have to give, listen and let things go.

Maria still needs to prove that she can take care of herself and not be dependent on any mere male. I do get it, and I respect it. I don’t get to play the hero.

But when I found myself telling Robin the story, I knew I hadn’t forgotten it. It was still raw. Those Sundays are as fresh in my mind as yesterday. Robin was unimpressed. He lay down his head and went to sleep. Zinnia was already snoring.

Fanny came over and put her head on my shoulder. I love donkeys.

The odd thing about growing older is that your life constantly changes yet always seems to stay the same. You do have to be old to see it.

She’ll be home in an hour or so.