Wedlock Sunday" by Gerald Locklin
she is working in the garden,
facing away from me,
trimming the bougainvillea,
still trim herself and youthful,
relaxed and free of cares,
doing something she enjoys,
something that she always has enjoyed,
and having lost all conception of
the passing of the hours,
and i feel a tenderness for her
that i may never have felt during
the selfish passion of young manhood,
and i wish the bitterness that
have more than merely punctuated
our thirty years together
could be magically obliterated
(which will never happen-let's
not kid ourselves-but perhaps for the
rest of this afternoon and evening
they will be.
i resolve to do and say
only kindesses to her
over dinner and in front of
the pbs mystery that we've been following
and not to react to
any sarcasms or schemes
she may slip into out of habit, hunger,
merlot, tiredness, or contemplation of
the work week's rattling hours
of third graders, parents, colleagues,
homework, grades, and art projects,
lying once again in wait for her.
Of course they won't because as soon as they become bitter, selfish or sexually exploitative, I leave. I leave, knowing that I can do better. That I don't deserve to be treated this way. That someone, with tenderness, ought to be kind to me. And maybe even love me.
But I am thirty and men in their twenties (of whom the past three I've been with were) have no such tenderness, so such insight into relationships, no cognitive distance that allows them to step back, see a moment, a person, and treasure it... treasure them. I want them to. I pray they will. I suggest good therapists. But they too, like me I suppose, think they will find some other flower more beautiful, more agreeable, more submissive.
My boyfriend and I broke up a little over two weeks ago. I am plagued with thoughts of him daily. What is he doing? Does he miss me? Is he orchestrating some big plan to win me back? Will he say his sorry? Or has he already forgotten me? Is he already fucking someone else? How could he already be fucking someone else? Didn't he love me? Why did I believe he loved me? If he loved me, he would fight for me, say he's sorry, change. Instead, I probably don't even cross his mind. He doesn't talk about me to his friends. Doesn't brood over what he could have done better. Who am I kidding? He doesn't even think about me anymore. My sister's husband left her without even batting an eye. Six years and he was gone. Every day I wonder what the right course of action should be: stay my ground? compromise? go crawling back because i miss who i thought he was? And I try not to bother my friends, because, like I said, we're in our thirties now and if I'm tired of experiencing loss for over a decade over and over again, surely they're sick of hearing about it too. But when I do venture forth, asking for advice, they offer insight, experience, try to imagine things from his point of view and ultimately tell me to move on (he isn't worth it).
Even that makes me angry though, because I know the men aren't writing in their journals wondering where they went wrong. They aren't seeking advice or counsel from friends, relatives, older and wiser couples. They don't have therapists that the may now return to again for clarity, wisdom.
Men don't do any of the hard work to become better people, better partners, better lovers... All they do is turn 50 or 60 and write poems like the one above reflecting on a relationship: 30 years lying before them on a mattress growing older and wiser and even more beautiful because they stuck it out because they took the higher ground, because they didn't leave, because they chose to be with men they knew would eventually appreciate them. Thirty years later.
Thirty years later.
Dear God! I can't wait that long. I realize I won't get a man who goes to therapy, a man who treasures me and spoils me with surprises and romance, but I at least want one who can communicate (because the last one couldn't). I want a man who won't put his ex-girlfriend's mother's feelings above mine, or who won't cheat on me with his ex-fiance and deny it, who won't pick me up two hours late for our date week after week, or who won't leave me because I have a sense of self, who won't dump me because he chose to believe his drunk, republican brother instead of his sober, level-headed girlfriend when trying to discern events from the night before, who won't cheat on me when I go on vacation two years in a row, who won't come crawling back into my bed after things with his latest ex didn't work out and couldn't we give it one more try?
That's over a decade of failed relationships. And no, these weren't all pot-head, bartenders. These are ministers, lawyers, cartographers, musicians, students at acclaimed universities, good church-going men.
Is it too much to ask? Or are all the good ones already taken? Because I'm sure in response to this, I'll get a slew of... "I never picked anyone up two-hours for a date without even so much as a phone call." "I never cheated on my wife." "I never... I never... I never."
Well, I never dated you. Shockingly enough. Since I've dated more men in the last decade than I have fingers and toes.
And while I've written many a love poem about the man of the year who I've allowed myself to fall head-over-feet in love with, no one's writing any poems about me. And probably never will.
Because I can do better. Even if better means alone...
I think.
I'll have to ask my therapist.
