Happy Non-iversary

It was twenty years ago, today...
---and if I were making an old-fashioned mix tape,
I would cut that line from Sgt. Pepper's
and place it first,
then maybe follow up with the opening spoken lines
of Let's Go Crazy,
but I'm not.
I'm not making a mix tape,
and I'm not celebrating.
Would we have made it?
Would we have been joyfully toasting
two decades of togetherness?
Or would we hate each other more -
or differently?
Maybe we would have fallen (back?) in love.
Maybe we would have dragged each other along
through this journey of life,
(reluctantly crouched at the starting line)
or, more accurately (but less mix tape-ily),
reluctantly approaching the finish line (of child-rearing, at least).
I don't know the answers to any of those questions.
I do know that I am still unable to forgive myself
and still unable to write to you.
It's too much, somehow.
It's too...intimate, too real.
If I write to you, then that means that I know (or expect) you to read these words.
And I am maybe not yet ready to write words that are actually for you.
They are still for me...
maybe all of the words
were always
for me.
Maybe that's the problem...
one giant piece of the selfishness puzzle.
But in any case...here I sit,
on what would have been our 20th wedding anniversary,
tired
fat
worried
(about work, the kids, the state of American politics),
and I wonder if you noticed the date.
I wonder if you even remember,
but of course you do.
Your memory is as sharp as your tongue used to seem to be.
I don't know if I got tougher,
or if our disentanglement is so complete that you can't hurt me anymore...
or, more realistically, that you just don't try to anymore.
An image of you as a wounded animal,
lashing out at the one causing you pain...
of course you wanted to hurt me.
Even when I was only loving you,
I was the atmosphere around you,
full of light and joy, but just
hovering
ready and able to end you.
Because you dared to love me,
and that gave me all the power...
too bad I never knew that.
Too bad I interpreted it all wrong,
and thought that you only loved controlling me.
Could it ever have gone differently?
Would I ever have seen the truths of either of us,
without fleeing to the edge of the continent
and hiding myself completely from you?
I don't know that I could.
I look back on that life and wonder why it wasn't enough for me.
All I can really see that makes any sense
is that I needed tenderness and compassion
and that it wasn't coming to me.
But why couldn't there have been a way for me to make us both happy?
The sad little truth of it
is that I may never be happy -
content.
Humans are not meant to have contentment, not really.
It feels good, but too much of it inhibits progress...

I just wish I had the courage to really write this,
to write it to you.

Our sons are you.
And I love them so much that it's impossible not to love you, too.
I wish you were here, but not like that...
just together and laughing and showing the kids that everything will be ok.
And maybe a part of me wants to go back to the breakup
and relive the gruesome pain of it all
because there is no way
that I've suffered enough
to deserve the goodness in my life now.
And I need you to know that you have -
you have suffered way more than enough
to deserve only goodness in your life now.
You always did deserve that.
As painful as it was to not get what I needed from you,
it was unquantifiably painful to not be able to give you what you needed from me.
I wanted you to feel safe and loved and fed...
I wanted to create the happy childhood for you that you never had.
And I wanted you to golf every single minute, because it made you feel good,
and you are so damn good at it.
(And I guess this must be deep because that's the first time I even swore...)
I miss your brothers,
and I miss the lightning storms crashing and flashing across the whole valley;
I miss the mountains and the giant sky;
I don't miss the fucking mormons,
or the arid air parching me from morning til night;
I don't miss feeling wrongly paired with you,
but I kind of miss fighting with you.

I am grateful for it all, though.
For what we taught each other,
and what we survived of each other.
I am grateful for the time we spent figuring out the world together,
and for the good times...
there were good times, right?
I am grateful for the two beautiful products of our DNA splicing together
and splitting and splitting and splitting
(and somehow not becoming conjoined in the womb
 - dyyyyying laughing at that memory);
and I know that there were good times.

I see it all a little more clearly now.
I see the sweet, innocent girl I was for 21 years.
I see the tiny amount of time that passed between living that life,
and discarding it all with bravado -
pretending to be a badass,
pretending to be tough, and cool...
and then I met you,
and you thought I had strenghth
because I showed you my teeth -
I was a tiny little mewling kitten,
puffing up its fur to the Rottweiler
(a strong, intelligent beast
whose eyesight maybe isn't so good,
because he believed that I was a tiger).
And there we were,
mismatched because I put on a show of toughness,
and all the while assuming that everyone else was as tender inside as I was.

Well, anyway.
I'm proud of you for all that you are,
and all that you've given to me and to the kids
back then,
and always.
I'm grateful that you are still out there,
sharing this part of the journey with me.

Saints and Sinners

I wonder...
what if you were my priest?
I think I would like it way too much.
I would consider becoming a nun just to be closer to you,
but instead,
I would put on my prettiest Sunday dress,
maybe something with flowers
or a long flowing skirt.
I would walk into the cavernous,
hushed space,
and make my way past the rows and rows
and rows
of empty pews
and slip into the confessional.
I would say the words you expected to hear,
then I would pause -
slow, deep breath.
Father,
I would say
(in a voice just above a whisper)
I have sinned.
You would say the words I expected to hear,
urging me to speak the sins aloud.
I would tell you, then.
I'm having impure thoughts, Father.
Night and day,
leaving no room for anything else.
I am consumed by images of skin - 
the back of a neck, the knuckles of a hand - 
I see the pieces of this man whenever I close my eyes.
You would tell me to recite poetry from the Bible
and expect that to clarify my cloudy soul.
I would come back the next week,
my cheeks flushed,
my hair wild.
Father.
I have sinned.
You are patient with me,
but you fail to see,
through the ornate screen between us,
that my eyes are filled with desire still,
and my shirt is unbuttoned lower than is decent.
I lean my head back against the wall
and close my eyes.
This man...
My voice trails off in a slight moan.
I need him.
Prayer isn't working,
nothing is working, Father.
You would speak softly, steadily
of virtue and modesty;
you pause, but when you start to speak again,
I rush on, telling my story -
I was out, having a glass of wine with a girl friend the other night,
and I saw a man who reminded me of him -
He had the same eyes, oh...those eyes...
Without a word,
I took this stranger's hand and led him away.
He smiled in surprise as
I pulled him into the shadows and opened his pants.
When he entered me I whispered your name...
Silence would fill the space between us, then.
The screen not nearly enough to hide what I had just laid bare.
I would hold my breath then,
wanting to run away and never come back,
but not daring to move.
I would start praying then,
for the first time with any sense of urgency,
and my lips would move with the silent words, my eyes tightly shut.
I would be so focused that I wouldn't hear you,
but then I would open my eyes
and see you standing before me.
The look in your eyes would be enough
to send my soul straight to a hell I don't believe in,
but I would stand
and press my lips to yours,
holding your face in my hands...
you would taste like heaven.
But then, I guess this is why I don't go to a church to worship.
Because...if you were my priest,
I would bring you to my religion.
I would disrupt,
make it all crash to the ground,
like Christ with the moneylenders
or Samson with his long hair...
And we have no priests in my religion,
but I would worship you if you came.

Exes and Ohs

Selfish,

you called me.

The most selfish person you'd ever met.

I recoiled,

angry - 

unwilling to wear this mantel you cast over me.

I remember the way my eyes darkened,

narrowed;

the way my jaw set in defiance.

How could he think that of 

me? I huffed.

Everything I do is for you

for our children - 

teaching them to count, 

to read, to ride bikes;

taking care of you all -

cooking your favorite foods,

cleaning all your clothes 

and all the rooms of our house -

all 4 goddamned bathrooms, 

and even your 

empty soda cans and 

empty cigarette packs

from the floor of your

empty

Mercedes.

All this, I do for You, 

the master of my destiny, 

but not the Captain of my soul.

I writhe under your steely grip,

agonizing over my loss of freedom.

I discard any notion
that you could be correct
about my degree of selfishness,
and press onward,
away from our life together.

But now...

a decade has passed,

in which we have been separated by cavernous distance 

and mostly silence.

And I finally realize

that you were right.

About so much.

But especially the selfishness.

I would expand that indictment to include

self-centered

self-obsessed

self-indulgent,

for starters.
I am all that you called me and more.

I would reach across the distance

and fill the silence with apologies.

Marr(i)ed Perfection

You are unrelenting 

in your criticism of me, 

and I of you 

I'll admit. 

But 

will you? 

Admit 

anything 

ever? 

Will you cede one inch, 

one millimeter? 

Will you allow me to be 

to breathe 

to express, 

and 

even more importantly 

will you ever hear me 

when I clearly state my needs?

Will you give me 

more than the sliver 

of our king sized bed 

that is left over 

after you've sprawled across it? 

Probably... 

I just have to ask.

I tried, and I tried, and I tried --

It’s like how I felt about my Volvo –

everything about it scratched one itch or another,

from the cradling leather seats,

to the turbo-charged purr of the engine;

from the memory button for the seat settings,

to the extra traction you could 

            turn on 

to supplement the all-wheel drive.

This Swedish marvel had windshield wipers 

that would sense the level of need 

    that you had for them, 

and maintain a clear windshield, 

whether a light drizzle or a downpour.

This vehicle of mine was the most satisfying
shade of sage green,

(like a pair of eyes you can't look away from).

It tickled every nerve ending in my body,

And filled me with a swell of delight –

I wanted to wrap my arms around it and kiss its hood,

Like a child with a favorite teddy bear.
I miss that car,
but not the life it was a product of.
I miss the cleaning ladies,
and the vacations,
but I don't miss the roar of dis
     satis
        faction
that echoed through me
from morning til night -
(it was loudest at night).
I don't miss pacing around in my gilded cage,
or shaking the bars
as I watched my dreams pass by
just out of reach.

Yeah...
you're kind of like that car, sometimes...

You, too?

Desire
    drips
through me.
When you are gone,
it is a raging torrent,
but when I am sated on you
when I am surrounded by your words
your smile
your gentle presence,
then
then is when
it drips, drizzles, hums
so low, so soft
that I feel buoyed by it
and carried along without need.
Then
you are far away and at first
(sigh)
at first
my desire stays dull and smooth,
I remain satisfied like a cat
with its mouth full of mouse,
but then I swallow
and begin licking my chops
chewing my lip
casting about for
you
as I stretch the limits of satisfaction -
empty
is my mouth
and soon
empty will be my heart
only to be filled with the aching rush of desire
for (absent) you.