Saturday, May 17, 2014

My husband sings in the mornings. Two Versions.

Version I. 
I married a morning person who sings pretty much all morning long. If he exercises, the singing continues into the afternoon. He tends to stick not just to one song but to one area of a song -- though there can be a bridge that gets whistled and occasionally a Fletch quote thrown in, for no reason. He also will sometimes break into dialogue while in a conversation -- meaning he starts acting out a scene that did or did not happen -- and it's kind of up to the listener to understand when it's what happened and then when he's riffing. Also he's a nomadic toothbrusher -- and tends to wander the house while brushing his teeth so as not to miss out on anything. He will join the conversation while brushing his teeth as well. He wasn't as much of a talker-about-his-feelings when we started dating, but now he loves this; he will talk and talk, feelings this and feelings that. When I'm teaching him dance moves (I was once a ballroom dance instructor), I sometimes have to say, "That was really good, but this time can you do it not like Robin Williams?" These things are ENDEARING. Endearing, endearing, endearing. So, there's marriage, approaching XX number of years.

Version II.
 oh and for the other people among my friends who thought that version was too sweet, too cloying? edit for that crowd: we buried our dead this year. we felt betrayed. we know too well what it is to lose friends to suicide. we mourn our miscarriages -- sometimes still after all these years -- we pace those kids among our living, watch them grow. we visit the nursing home. we kiss the one slack cheek of a stroke. we watch time pass and dread our deaths -- but first we fear our parents' deaths. we pace the house some nights. we worry over money and tally our losses and know that every joy hints at some immeasurable unknowable loss. we dig in. we dig a pit. when burying the dog, my husband realizes what a grave is and thinks of his own. we don't plant flowers. it's finally spring, but the winter was dark and it piled against the windows. we feel the rust of our corrosive souls. and for reasons beyond all reason, my husband sings in the mornings. 
better?