The Quiet Coach

Man sitting on rock during golden hour

I’ve always felt that someone is watching me, particularly in times of great decisions, not necessarily life decisions, just those little moments of personal risk when the ego is worried about its edges.

Jumping off a cliff
Dancing at a wedding
Playing on a playground
Speaking at a funeral

He just shows up. I can only see him from the back.

His hair’s a little thinner. His shoulders a little more relaxed. He’s always sitting, as if he’s been there before and knows the right answer. He’s too cool to be from here. That I know.

There’s never any pressure. He’s not judgy. That’s not his style. It’s simply about being there, showing up when I’m exposed.

It’s usually rather obvious what he’s thinking.

The answer’s in my body. Maybe he puts it there: a plump care package from a knowing soul, silky ribbon untying itself, flimsy paper unfolding.

It’s a familiar feeling. If I were to close my eyes and concentrate really hard, I would recognize the deliberate folds in the paper, the curl of the ribbon made by the scissors. The signature is there.

But there’s no need to concentrate, no need to know. Our relationship is perfect.

I’m sure he’d agree.




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