Years ago, a photographer friend of mine, Maggie Knaus, had an exhibition that she entitled “Nearby.” In it, she featured pictures she had taken when her brother-in-law had been nearby. He had passed away, but the images remained, beautiful and poignant. 

I think about that exhibition a lot: the beauty; the sadness; the sense that noticing who is nearby, who is not quite in the picture, is powerful and important. Because of it, I find myself thinking about who is nearby as I go about my day.

Right now, for example, my spouse and his buddies are playing a board game in the next room. The game will last most of the afternoon, their laughter and chatter an accompaniment to my writing and planning. Dice rattle; pieces plunk onto the board. I love the easy camaraderie of these men, the way they gather often, using games to deepen their friendships. They laugh again, and here, mere metres away, I smile.

Mr. 15 is in his third-floor hideaway. The “chill room” was meant to be a shared space, but his bedroom is tiny, so he has spilled into this space, too: computer, books, beanbag – and all the detritus that trails behind teenage boys. When he is home, he is up there. Moments ago, we crossed paths in the kitchen as he cut two thick slabs of fresh bread, slathered them with butter and popped them into the toaster “to melt the butter just enough.” I silently marvelled at his tall and slender form, at his long torso stretching up from pajama bottoms knotted low around his hips. What a miracle, to watch my child become a man. I hug him when I can and keep my comments to a minimum. Now, he is hidden again: only his voice trails down the stairs, a murmured reminder that he is nearby.

Mr. 13 is in the room with me, but a bookcase and a bamboo screen separate us. He is nearly silent now. Only the click of the keyboard and the occasional slide of the chair across the floor let me know he is nearby. Soon enough, he will finish this task and join his friends online. At some point, his excited voice will rise up to fill this room, and I will say, “Seriously! Can you please tone it down?” and he will – for 30 seconds or a minute – until the game and the friends fill his brain again and his voice surges again.

In the kitchen, one cat sleeps in her perch near the sliding glass door. In the basement, the other cat sleeps in the box of giveaway coats that she has adopted as her own. And here on the couch, the dog has curled up next to me as I write. 

In this mundane moment, I pause to recognize just how much love is near me, just how lucky I am.