Lion and Hyena

“Oh my! Your hairstyle looks just like an old lion’s—so majestic!”
A friend I hadn’t seen in ages winked at me as she made this comment to my husband, whose long, curly, half-gray hair had grown out.
“So what does that make me? A hyena slinking around, watching from the sidelines?” I replied.

I pan-fried two frozen flounders—my husband's favorite—adding green onions and soy sauce. As I opened the lid, the steam rose, and the fish sizzled invitingly. My husband, chopsticks in hand, eyes gleaming like he had just spotted prey, was ready. In no time, the fish was picked clean—only bare bones left. I hadn’t even had a single bite. I found myself poking around for scraps still clinging to the skeleton. That’s how our married life began: fighting over food, one devouring it, the other feeling a little left out.

Taking advantage of our rare trip to Korea, I convinced my not-so-willing husband—under all sorts of excuses—to get a full medical check-up. The result after 28 years of marriage?

Me: protein deficiency. Him: overweight. Nowadays, the moment I place a flounder on the table, I quickly grab my share with my chopsticks and say,

“You know I’m protein deficient, right?”

Then he, a bit reluctantly, slides a big, juicy piece over to my side.

He walks ahead of me. I try to keep up, legs moving fast to match his pace, but I fall behind again. Throughout our life together, he never really walked with me, never waited, and often left me behind completely—like an animal that spots prey and charges into the forest, disappearing in a flash. I’d search and search until I was too tired, only to come home and find him sprawled out, asleep. Maybe he actually wanted me to give up and vanish. Maybe that’s why he walked so quickly—trying to get out of my sight.

But now that he’s older, he waves for me to hurry, and he even waits at street corners. I’ve grown used to that annoying back of his, always just ahead, and I’ve spent a lifetime trying not to lose sight of it.

He doesn’t like anyone talking or reaching for food when he’s eating something he enjoys. So if one day, he’s not there in front of me anymore—what will I be like, eating alone? If there comes a day when I can no longer walk behind him, staring at that familiar back, what will I look at to keep going?

I’m grateful that, even if I have to lag behind a little, I still have strong legs to follow him. And I’m thankful that now, from time to time, he turns around to check if I’m still there.