Love and Marriage…. it’s not just an old Frank Sinatra song.

by Lisa Donovan

So today is mine and John’s anniversary. Two years ago today, we were married in a beautiful church in New Orleans with everyone we love around us. So much has happened since then.

We are phasing out of our newlywed years and getting down to the nitty gritty of what this married life is all about. Yes, we are best friends. Yes, we know one another better than anyone ever has or ever will. Yes, we make sacrifices for one another. But those of you who are married know the deeper issues; those days when you want to kill one another followed by a love stronger than you ever thought possible for someone other than your children; those days when you realize you are actually a better quality of person because of your other and vice versa; those days when you can look at each other and realize that the two of you have built an entire world consisting of children and pets and careers and homes and experiences that are strong and exists solely because of your love. Marriage is being able to throw a container of cottage cheese at your husband, thus starting a cottage cheese war, while you are both sobbing incoherent mutterings about everything being the other’s fault because you are both so exhausted from the eight-week-old baby hanging off your breast or in his tired arms at 2am and the five-year-old playing shoot ‘em up cowboy as loudly as he can for attention in the midst of a sexual drought that neither one of you can remedy due to the aforementioned state of exhaustion. It’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

I found a poem about a year ago and wasn’t smart enough to write down the author — it is so beautifully written that the creator deserves full credit and accolades. It says it better than I ever could, so enjoy. John, this one’s for you:

That you and I, I and you,
this twenty-fifth year after
you stamped your foot, shattered
the glass, and friends, so many dead
or forgotten, applauded in a ballroom
long abandoned, twenty-five years
of Monday good-byes, monthly wars
with stacks of bills, bags of garbage,
frozen gutters, nights filled
with pink medicines, fevered cheeks
on shoulders, the other hand reaching
for the pediatrician’s call, termites
chewing, and hours waiting
for the door to open, holding
our own daughter’s head vomiting
beer into our own leaking toilet,
that now, as mirrors mark the descent
of breasts, the tub catches silvered
pubic hair and our eyes wear pouches
and hoods, as though expecting rain,
that you and I could smell the salt
of each other, coming together after
long absence, silent, still, staring up
at the darkening ceiling, naked in a house
with empty, orderly bedrooms, the last
of dead roses and discarded boyfriends
tossed out, your hand touching mine,
our breathing slowing,
the wonder of it all.

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This entry was posted on Monday, March 13th, 2006 at 10:26 am and is filed under Relationships, Marriage. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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