Writer-Spouses

So much to say in a marriage, so much unsaid.

Joyce Carol Oates

***

Only a foolhardy youth with something to prove acknowledges death, then proceeds to chase it. Some call it bravery; the old men in flannel shirts, their collars crisp and starched, hunch over checkerboards and whistle in revelry.

“That there is a brave man. A man after his own legend.”

My coworkers expressed a kindheartedness I rarely expose, or consider as “acceptable”, whilst in the daily throes of corporate dogma: they threw me a surprise wedding party and handed me a card. One hundred dollars, in tens and twenties, dribbled from the card’s mouth; behind the legal tender, the natural signatures of intimate strangers. The most accurate piece of advice scrawled: “Your screwed,” attributed to Eric M.

***

We are, to date, six months into our marriage and, to date, there seem to be no regrets. Often, I think of the vows I wrote for her. I think of that time, two days before our wedding, struggling with literature to express my love for her, to promise her my life and, equally, to yoke myself to hers. My vows brought a pause to the ceremony; she cried for a minute—or maybe years—as I folded the paper in quadrants and shoved it into my jacket pocket.

There are the sweet nothings of courtship, those lines used to convey an ache for her body, for her presence, her smile. There are vows: promissory notes affixed to our marriage certificate, captured in a white three-ring binder handed to us by Naila, our officiant. And then, there is literature: the usage of metaphor and rhyme, of setting and of time and place, of subtext beneath the words which made her weep.

Few people are macabre enough to think of the end. They will protect their assets—and perhaps their secrets—should the union dissolve in acrid divorce. I know this all too well. I wanted to approach my second marriage in a new light. Love different. I proceeded to spin the world like a basketball atop my finger. Days leapt toward decades and, in my imagination, we took turns sleeping in a deathbed. I clutched her wrinkled hand; she stroked my balmy forehead. We bound ourselves to the feasibility of lost autonomy, to the stab of relearning life as single beings; we signed our names and became probationary members of Widowhood.

Should we succeed, we pledged our allegiance to an emptiness we would otherwise dodge. We saw enough—just enough—in each other to mount our horses and ride toward death; the odds are against us, for the likelihood of us making love as an airplane tailspins into the Atlantic is lesser than her contracting heart disease, or the cigarette tar in my lungs drowning me. One of us will fade to black, leaving the other to a world of rolling credits: puttering around our home alone; driving to the bank with the oldies hip-hop station as companion; grocery shopping without comedy relief.

***

The usage of literature, with respect to my vows, was a deliberate choice. We are both writers, meaning—the lion share of our time is devoted to a search for the right word, the perfect texture, to appease invisible critics. We are both introverts, meaning—we build a life of happiness on the foundation of silence. When she speaks, I listen; when I sit quietly, she hears me. But we do not write poetry for each other, not anymore.

In our courtship, we acknowledged the possibility that the poems would cease or, rather, become understood; we made a pact to not read too much into the slowing of poems, so long as we understood each other, still. Is it awkward for writers to use their literary powers for anyone, everyone, except each other? It is the awkwardness of spouses: a husband rants in the presence of barflies, a wife hurls plates in the presence of sisters.

When they sleep, their feet touch, their calves kiss, their snores are coveted. Writer-spouses are, then, normal. Still, my vows were a novel in progress, groping at something, hinting and winking at unborn specters & wrinkles. My novel entertained, and evoked elation, but the macabre was missed and, therefore, the project failed…I think.

She is a better poet than I am; she can see the lean of a dilapidated library in Alliance, Ohio and say, “It is angled toward Mecca.” With that in mind, maybe she saw the nudity of my vows, the extension of a man, and began to cry as she thought, “I too see the dread.” Literature allows for interpretation. The writer always has an out, an escape pod labeled plausible deniability: I didn’t mean it quite like how you read it, but thanks for trying.

***

I will then interpret her tears as terror personified. Divorce is the least of our future problems for, if we wish, we could try again with another lover; I know this all too well. Neither of us, however, want to be widowed and marooned on Earth desperately sprinting to a nearby church for confirmation of Heaven or Hell. And no one saw, I think, the pause I took as I read the first portion of my vows. Yet, when I am quiet, she hears me. I could’ve saved time and said— “I’ll spend every day waiting for the day you die…and never flinch”—then hand her my finger, stoic and solid in anticipation for my tungsten wedding band, heavy and spangled.

Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight…a long time.

Portions of this piece originally published by The Rumpus

@thomasdemary. @thomas demary.