Clear edges on a relationship are hard to keep. Personal boundaries are more permeable than a split rail, or a brick wall. And so they should be. And yet, there are troublesome questions around what is or is not my concern.

It all starts in the womb. Each time I carried a tiny body or two within my own, the distance between us was fluid. Literally.

Is the vitamin C from that orange juice at breakfast going to my stomach, or yours? That space between my ribs, is it for your legs or my breath? Do I get to have an opinion about your hiccoughing marathon when I am trying to sleep? 

Then the baby makes the dramatic separation of a cut umbilical cord, and spends the next few years begging to be reconnected. The other day I was at a school orientation event and the teacher's young daughter made it clear that there was no place better than her mother's hip. The older brother, on the other hand, enjoyed the freedom of racing up and down the hall.

When a couple starts out they are often only too eager to smash into a single chair, borrow one another's jacket, share a fork. But gradually the need for elbow room shows up, and different hobbies fill the space between. 

The other day I walked into church alone. John was preaching at a different service, and I was not sad to sit without him. Across the room was a couple that have been married for over sixty years. It occurred to me that they are always together. Always. One of them is getting wobbly, and the other offers stability when they walk. They were not giggles and chatty, like the engaged couple near the back. They sat quietly, as if words were no longer the primary avenue for connection. 

In the afternoon John needed to get a few errands done. Twenty years of parenting ingrained the need for efficiency, and we long ago stopped shopping together. But at the last minute I climbed into the passenger seat next to him. Just because I could.