The Sleeper

I’m watching him sleep. He’s covered from the waist down with a white coverlet and I’m able to see every incredible muscle and every striation in his well-built arms, chest and abdomen. I watch each slow, deep breath he makes. His sideburns and goatee are silver, his hands are swollen with arthritis and one knee is steel. A lifetime of body-building and home building has left his body ravaged.


He’s sleeping deeply tonight, which doesn’t happen often. He has to get up at 3:15 to bid a set of plans before going to work and getting our employees on task. He believes that I never think of him, he thinks he’s nothing to us.

He doesn’t see me watching him sleep and he doesn’t see the tears falling for him as I stare. He’s worked for us for 22 years. He’s 59, he should be retiring soon, but he can’t. This economy has left us, left him beaten and his soul broken.

I don’t know what I can do for him. I make him dinner and he’s always served first. I rub his head and his face as he lies in bed. I make sure he rides his motorcycle; I make sure we get away together if even for an hour. It doesn’t seem to be enough. He gives his life to us and it seems we only take from him.