Our marriage had finally miscarried. It had mutated into a
twisted, deformed and monstrous thing, now emerging amid an issue of blood.
At its conception twenty years ago we were idealistic, full
of blind love… was it love? Had it been that? Do you remember that day - the
blue sky and bright colors, the smiles and celebration? Two of the popular kids
in the class, known and admired in the city where we were raised, beautiful
each one and together even more so. You in your white gown, white smile framed
by red lips, the very color of passion. The wine flowed, the gifts piled high
and as the evening wore on the celebration took on a life of its own, a
celebration of the celebration itself. We all left there, each patting
themselves on the back for having been part of a Grand Event, each having
brought their own part to a story that would be a classic. They still speak of
it today, twenty years later. And that night, the cars dragging their lights
behind in the deep night, the couples that attended went home to continue their
own stories. Now, looking back, I wonder how many of their stories were put on
hold that night to celebrate the arrival of two of their own into their secret
society, to celebrate a rite that is so rife with complication that it is easy
to lie for a while, to say that it is good. There is much good, there has been.
Hasn’t there?
This unidentifiable thing, this mismarraige…where is the
physician that can heal this, make it right again if it ever was? Do all people
go through this? Is this the celebrated Thing? Or do we come together in
marriage and its celebration for the hope that this couple will be one of the
fortunate or smart ones that do things right, that have enough luck and
character together and separately to earn the headstone that says “Beloved
Spouse of 65 Years”? Looking at the statistics, its no wonder we are a nation
of gamblers. We gamble with each others’ very lives, the ones we profess to
love!
Looking at you now is like looking at you through water, a
few feet under. I don’t often see you clearly anymore, but when the storm
ceases to blow the surface I can almost make out what I once remembered. I
don’t see the monster. God help me, at times I still see hope. And faith. And
loyalty. What is our mismarraige can still be killed and recreated when I see
you on the clear days. The marriage returns, the celebration continues on the
clear days – I see just enough of you that I can remember us. Like a lump of
clay that has all the potential to be honored, loved and admired for generations
- can this commitment be remade yet again?
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