It's 7:05 am and he emerges from the brownstone, in his slow, slightly off kilter shuffle that suggests he's already done with day before it's begun. Even though it's morning and the sun has technically rose, there's an eeriness to the darkened sky that betrays the reality of time. It could be the middle of the night. It could be the midst of a solar eclipse. It could just be January in Seattle.

But despite the unsavory weather conditions, he settles into his spot, as always, sitting on the edge of the concrete barrier, separating his brownstone from the dog park behind it. From the pocket of his ever present dusty yellow rain jacket, he retrieves a carton of cigarettes and a lighter. He lights up, the glow of his cigarette and his yellow jacket are the only hints of color present among the tech grey of skyscrapers and retail stores of South Lake Union.

On the concrete slab next time him is a built in chess set. Its board is painted in to the concrete. An offering, suggesting a place of meeting for two to sit and engage with the world rather than disappear into a neighboring office. No one ever plays chess there. He glances at it. Maybe he would play chess if there was someone there with him. Would you play chess, Clive?

Clive Cliverson. He works from home or perhaps he is on disability, something attributed to his awkward gate. Because he's not always present at his post but takes a cigarette break often enough to suggest he isn't spending 8 hours a day/5 days a week at a different location. He only wears one rain jacket. Even on the rare occasions when it's not raining. He wears black pants. He's younger than he looks. He doesn't pull out his phone. He stares off in silence, occasionally taking a puff. He doesn't talk to strangers on the street. Once he's finished he gets up and slowly returns to his brownstone. Through the windows one can see him going up to the second floor.

Clive might be divorced. Or widowed. It feels cliche to say he's divorced but he seems like the perfect target audience for "divorced dad rock". And if he's originally from Seattle, and judging from his age, he definitely had a Nirvana phase, while Kurt was still alive.

Perhaps he's apathetic to life in general. He must be to continue to smoke every day while living directly next to a building with a banner labeled "cancer clinic housing" on it. For some reason this confrontation of mortality doesn't prevent him from his daily ritual. Or perhaps he's unobservant and unaware that this is an extension of the hospital, a dormitory for those undergoing cancer treatment. I'm on the 6th floor. I see him every day. I keep wondering if one day he'll instinctively feel my eyes on him and look up. Or perhaps he noticed me watching him a long time ago and just plays along because he likes the thought of having a secret admirer. I'm not attracted to him. But I am compelled by him.

With all of the uncertainty of life there's something comforting about the dependability of a stranger always returning to his spot. He's an NPC in a video game always operating the same market stall. Maybe to him, I'm an NPC too. A figure in a window.

He's the one constant I have in this world and I don't even know his real name. I'd like to imagine he's good, salt of the earth type. But not in that overly machismo sort of way that asserts his individual problems are equitable to bigger systematic issues. No, he's real. Like been through some real shit. But instead of that John Wayne "pull yourself up by the bootstraps" mantra, it's made him softer, more tender. The kinda guy you could find in a pub and have a scotch with and talk about life. And he wouldn't just talk about sports, or complain about young people. He'd want to talk about real things. Real pain and beauty and it would be sort of like poetry but with no pretension. His poems wouldn't rhyme. You just can't see it on the outside. He's got a shell but softness underneath. Like a crab, a cancer. Damn, it somehow always comes back to cancer.

I wonder if he ever thinks about cancer. It's quite literally staring him right in the face every day. I don't think about cancer much. Actually that's not true, I think about it all of the time. I just try to reserve only a small space for it in my conscious mind. My grandma said that's what she used to do, when she had cancer. She would allow herself a few moments each day to let the worry consume her. And then when those moments were up she would envision a large red stop sign. She's dead now. But not from cancer.

He's getting cold now. He's been out in the rain for a while and he's almost done with his cigarette. I suppose he'll head back in and start his day.

Tomorrow I'll go up to Clive maybe. Or maybe I won't. No, I think it's better this way. I like him the way he is. Comforting enough in his distance. Maybe I wouldn't like him if I met him. Maybe when treatment's fully done and I've rung the bell, I'll go up to him and introduce myself. But until then I need him to be exactly what he is. A lighthouse. In an ocean of uncertainty, and tests, and blood draws, and chemo bags, and florescent lights, and walled in by skyscrapers and thousands of miles from home. I had someone else once who felt like that but when I got too close it only led to heartbreak. I saw a quote once that said not to find a home in another person's heart. You know, those cheesy quotes that tell you to be your own soulmate. But sometimes when your own body betrays you, it doesn't feel like a home you want to be in. What do you do then? When you're unmoored, I think it's okay for a little while to find a shelter from the storm.

Yeah, I guess he's my lighthouse.