Our marriage of selves always worked—
even in 1981, when no one would call it a marriage.
Still, it felt secure without a court decree
or piece of paper embossed.
It never felt flimsy, impossible.
It worked for a lot of reasons.
Because you put your arm through mine
when we hiked to Hawk Mountain.
Because you listened, nodded,
even when I made no sense.
Because you locked the keys in the car
while it was running
and stood for an hour in the rain
when we had our first fight.
Because you were a cola Slurpee addict,
an onion ring fiend,
and loved fresh salads full of garlic.
Because you heard my voice on the radio
called excitedly,
smiling through the landline—
and, at home,
a cup of English Breakfast brewed
when I walked in the door.
Because you whistled for horses
that galloped to your side
but never to mine.
Because you tossed a hay bale
as easy as flipping a pancake,
all five feet of you.
Because I stepped on, sat on,
found in couch cushions
red ink pens—
the book editor in you hoarded.
Because I turned to find you standing
behind me—appearing suddenly,
silently,
as though you didn’t exist at all.
Because you walked with your head bowed
looking for religion in the grass,
contemplating the nature of things.
Because you laughed at Young Frankenstein
and cried at E.T.
Because you saw things in me
I’ll never see.
Because you’re still here—
buried
in my late-life shadows.
