Marriage: Fourteen Versions of Us
I.
We are hands clasped on a sunlit campus, autumn’s confetti beneath our feet. We are possibility.
II.
The swish of white. A dash of black tie. Silhouettes before the priest, posed family photos, all stiff smiles and jangled nerves. Who will we be? What have we done?
III.
This first pregnancy. It’s like watching the sun rise, all spectacular glory and light. On the heels of miscarried hope.
Miscarried. The strangest word.
We are besotted. His blue eyes. His long lashes. His skinny legs.
IV.
Another pregnancy. Then another. Besotted still. Yet tired.
The second boy doesn’t answer to his name no matter how many ways we say it.
A small vibration of fear has started to beat beneath our ribcages. The tiniest drum. Our new tympani.
Jack.
Jack.
Jack.
V.
Diagnosis day. Autism Spectrum Disorder. We order pizza.
VI.
A girl. Pink mixed in with all that blue. The last, we agree, until a missed doctor’s appointment rearranges our plans. A fifth. A boy. Stair steps now: boy-boy-boy-girl-boy.
VII.
Who are we, where are we? Trouble. We are in trouble. Too many outstretched palms and tiny voices. Too many unknowns. Still, he doesn’t talk. Still, I watch you try.
VIII.
We are fighting our way back. We are fighting to remember the white and the dash of black. Nights on the couch. The words fly. Nocturnal arguments are punctuated by moments of pure joy in the daylight. They keep us afloat.
We hold on tight like the good priest warned we should.
IX.
Life is a slideshow. Afternoons at the beach. Christmas morning. The first day of school. I worry I don’t have time for each one of them. They fill my spirit. They break my heart. You are here for it all. My witness. This man whose hand I once held amongst the leaves.
We find our groove. Still, our timeworn dynamic plagues us. Long stretches of oceanic calm, then a riptide of anger threatens to drag us beneath the waves.
X
I stop holding on to grudges. I let them go like so many kites in the wind. They are weightless. They float to the sky. They mean nothing.
XI
Breathing space between teenagers. Waiting for the sweep of headlights up the long driveway. We miss the outstretched palms. They were shaped like stars. Inhale. Exhale.
XII
We figure out how to apologize. Apologies, I’ve learned, do not come on command. Like seedlings, they need light and air to blossom. Mostly they need space to grow.
XIII
Twenty-five years, in the blink of an eye. This new season is one of somewhat ease. Is the dynamic gone? Is the tide gone calm? Not exactly. Sometimes, our voices still rise and fall in their jaggedness.
XIV
I know your face better than I know my own. It’s going to be okay. I loved you then. I love you still. Nothing is real until I tell you.
Kate Ferry
August 14, 2023 @ 10:18 am
“I Do” have Goosebumps!