marriage

Micropoetry Monday: Love Story

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Sepia heart.jpg

He wouldn’t have loved her whole,
but when he became half a man,
he loved her wholly,
for she was willing to be
his more able half.

In the worst of times,
she wanted to set their life on fire,
drown his sorrows with gasoline or
punch hers into confetti,
for the entire picture was too painful
to take in all at once;
in the best of times,
she forgot the worst of times.

He took a vow,
she took an oath.
Though his wife was difficult,
& her terminal patients were
in pain,
they remained steadfast,
but when his wife left him
& a particular patient passed away,
he found refuge in the nurse,
& she,
as a wife with but 1 patient:
her husband.

Deep Exploration

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When they explored the land,
they saw how the faster travel and communication became,
the smaller the world became.

When they explored the spaces beneath them,
they saw the dark side of the earth–
an underworld untouched by the living
but populated by the dead.

When they explored the space above them,
they were in wonder of all they did not know
and all they could not see.
And it was there they hovered–
in awe of the God who would not show His face,
but had set it all in motion,
this God whose voice was unheard
but whose signature was on everything.

When they explored one anothers’ bodies,
making love on the beach at low tide
where the honeymoon rose and set on their salt-beaded skin,
their hair like the rim of margarita glasses,
they lost themselves in each other,
even as they found themselves in awe of one another
and of everything they were;
for they were the dust of earth,
even as they were the debris of the heavens,
rearranged in such a way
that made them perfect for each other.

Hint of Infidelity

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A streak of Hot Pants Pink by Orlane
smeared on his starched white collar,
the single, long blond hair that formed a wavy line down the back of his tweed coat,
the scent of a woman with an affinity for floral and honey,
a receipt in his pants pocket for two iced gingerbread lattes,
wrapped around a mysterious key,
the scratch marks on his back that seem like a form of pleasurable self-flagellation,
the wedding ring that seems to tighten around his finger like a noose,
the exhausted, distracted husband who comes home late from the office,
Rowena, the name he calls out in dreams…
She was Rowena a once, too–
till she asked to be called Rowan,
cut her hair,
and ditched her dresses for dungarees,
but who could blame him?
For she was not even half the woman he’d married,
but rather,
half a man.

Micropoetry Monday: Love Sucks, Bites, & Blows

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They each lived a double life,
sharing the secondary one.
They each had a spouse,
who knew not what their other half did,
for their lovemaking
was merely the tapping of keys.

She’d loved a 0;
a 10 had loved her.
Because the 0 had come first,
she lost The One.

She had been raised to put her marriage first,
& in so doing,
she had put herself second.
Her children could never imagine a Father’s love,
having never seen it in their own.

She married him for security & got love;
he married her for love,
but because he couldn’t give her security
in anything but his love,
she changed providers.

No one knows everything about the one they love,
but they can choose to love what they know,
& when what they do not know is revealed,
they have the right to make a second choice.

That Fuzzy Gray Area Called Memory

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Remember when I was born and you were so happy?
I remember when you were born.

Remember your first day of school and you were so excited?
I remember being excited about leaving.

Remember when you were trying out for baseball and how hot it was?
I remember it being hot all the time.

Remember when you ate that hot dog and threw up all over Grandpa?
I remember throwing up all over Grandpa,
and not being able to eat hot dogs for a whole year.

Remember when you blew a bubble and got gum all in your hair?
I remember Mom crying while she shaved my head that time.
Are you sure it wasn’t a lollipop?

Remember when you graduated from high school and you were kind of sad?
I just remember being happy.

Remember when you went off to college and Mom was sad?
I remember being scared.

Remember when you met Anne and it was not quite love at first sight?
I’ve always loved Anne.

Remember your wedding day, and you were so nervous?
She was the one who was nervous.

Remember when you almost fainted while Marie was being born?
Guys don’t faint.

And the moral of this prose is simple:
This is why perfectly true memoirs are impossible to write.

A Tale of Two Twins

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Merry and Kate,
two of a kind of something fine,
walked into a bar quite late,
both with something big on their minds.

“Congrats, Kate,” Samson, the bartender said,
then, with a deferential look at Merry,
“Sorry to hear the news—
that’ll be a lot of baggage to carry.”

Merry, with a nod, mumbled,
“This pushover needs a hangover.
I’ll take a double of whatever you’ve got.
I’m not feeling so hot.”

Kate, giving her minute sister
(as Merry had been born one minute later),
a big hug and a kiss of air above her hair,
went to dance–
all curves in tight pants.
Kate, feeling celebratory,
cut up the invisible rug like she was on happy drugs,
whilst Merry drowned in emotional purgatory.

“I feel like my life is over,” Merry said,
ordering another.

Just then,
a couple of towheads came in and saw the twin,
looking the lost part of lost and found,
and slid onto the stools,
resisting the urge to wildly spin around.

Olive and Vinny, friends of the twins—
been married for years, it seemed like—
they even sort of looked alike.
Merry called them the Dollangangers.
They didn’t get it.
“Look up “Flowers in the Attic”,” she’d say,
but they never did.

“What’s wrong, Twinnie?” Olive asked,
ordering a martini,
and Merry, feeling quite contrary, said,
“I’m getting married, I guess.”

“Sorry to hear that, old girl,” Vinny said,
with a shake of his head.
“Wish Joe was a better fella,
but you could’ve done worse—
at least he isn’t a male nurse.”

They looked over at Kate, and Olive asked,
“Well, what’s she got to be so happy about?”
“Oh, she’s finally getting divorced,” Merry said,
then held up her glass and added with a pout,
“Bartender, pour me another—
just enough to knock me out.”

Marriage roles

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It’s funny how an article I read days, or even longer ago, will pop back into my mind when it relates to my life in some way, when it has found its place.

See:  http://simplemarriage.net/know-your-role-live-by-it-and-redefine-it-as-needed/

My husband and I have what we call a traditional marriage in the modern sense–he is the handyman, and the primary breadwinner; I work part-time, feed the baby (solids and liquids, but he helps with the bottle feeding), bathe her, and read to her (he’s read to her on occasion, but he’s not a reader himself), though we are split on household chores.  He does the deeper, once-a-week type cleaning while I take care of the laundry and dishes.  Because he works more outside the home than I do, I not only believe this is fair, but I am happy and comfortable with this arrangement.

We both like to do the grocery shopping, as we both cook (though not lately, because it’s summer, and because he’s been working more and I work in a restaurant).  This is one of my weakest areas because I hate the dirty dishes that come with the territory, so it is something I want to work on.  I want my daughter to see me cooking, and cooking with whole foods (breadmaking will probably be the one thing I’ll never really get in to).  I don’t bother cooking seafood (because it’s so expensive, and I would cry if I had to throw it away), I don’t know how to grill (grilling is my husband’s thing, baking, with the exception of bread, is mine), and my husband is a better fryer (and all around cook) than I am, so I leave that to him.  He’s good with the grease and the outdoors, I’m good with casseroles and the indoors.

As far as the interior decorating goes, my husband loves my taste, and I have the freedom to decorate our home any way I please.  I can make any room look feminine, without looking too frilly.

Anything concerning outside our four walls, including our car, he takes care of.  He pumps the gas, and is always the driver.  I only drive myself when he isn’t with me.

I pay our online bills, and he takes care of any that have to be paid in person.  I am in charge of printing coupons (clipping is so 1990’s) and keeping up with sales and deals, and he does the negotiating.  I stay abreast of the free 8X10 photograph enlargement offers at Walgreens, and I reminded my husband (whose birthday it was today) to get his free birthday sub at Firehouse.

Neither of us, prior to marrying, discussed our marriage roles, though we both knew that whoever made the most money would be the one working, while the other worked part-time or stayed at home.  If, by the time I finish school, I will be making more money, then there will be not so much a role reversal, but a shift.  Whether or not the man should be the breadwinner is the only thing we’re not traditional about.

Like my friend Mandy, I think it’s important to “know our role”, which can sometimes alter or change.  How we determine what our roles are, I think, come down to whatever is best for the family.  It just makes sense that my husband is the picture-hanger, not because I don’t want to do it, but because he’s better at it.  It makes sense that I’m the one who sings to our baby and teaches her new songs, because I sing better than my husband (who I sit next to on my deaf side in church).  That’s not to say we should allow our weaknesses to remain weaknesses, but for now, this works for us.  Meanwhile, I’ll be trying at least one new recipe a week, if I can just stop forgetting to remember that was a New Year’s resolution.