Writing With Abandon

Dear Batman,

I’ve been thinking about our own crossword compatibility since Kim sliced about hers and Brian’s last week. Then, late last night, after one of our typical teamwork moments, you hugged me and said, “Thank you for being the Alfred to my Batman.”

That’s us.

You’re out there fighting the bad guys.

I’m holding you steady with emotional and technical support.

When we used to work in the same building, you’d send me a message: “How do I readjust image size in Slides?”

“One sec,” I’d text back. “Okay, share it with me?”

Then I’d go into full ops mode, open the slides, bing, bam, boom, and voila.

“Done.”

“You’re the best!!!”

Nope, I’m just your Alfred.

A Google Suite whiz, computer savvy and quick at all things.

That’s what earned me the nickname Energizer Bunny from my co-teachers all those years ago, after all.

Batman, I’m happy to keep the Batmobile in shape and maintain the Batcomputer’s smooth operations. Luckily, you’re a great roommate in the Batcave and we split the labor.

I notice something happening as time goes by though. That scaffolding I helped build so you could climb up high and see the city from above? We’re taking it down piece by piece, because the foundation is strong enough now for you to climb up by yourself.

And, as we know from my vaso vagal experience just a few weeks ago, sometimes I’m the one who needs an Alfred. And when I do, we easily swap roles. You readily assume Alfred-duties when I need to become Batman in my own life.

We’re a team. Helping each other work towards our own individual goals while we join forces for the ones we have together.

I love you, Batman.

Sincerely,

Alfred