History

Thirty three years we go back,
Of course I think of you when I hear it.
Twenty five years of listening, questioning, understanding...
Of course I think of you.
My mind isn't a spigot I can turn off  and forget the water that flowed through.
I think of you when I was proud to be your wife, proud of your accomplishments.
What does she know of those?
She doesn't know      you.

She doesn't       know       you.

She hasn't loved you through the rages and disappointments,
through the utter giddiness of new fatherhood, through your father's death, your mother's pain.
 She didn't thrill with each promotion, plan homes, plant gardens, hope for thunder, dance in the rain, live on  bagels for lunch, play badminton in the dark.
She hasn't dried your tears over a son's illness.
She didn't play bridge for five years and remember
friends or know their son who died, the tow -headed little boy who made us think of becoming parents.

What comfort can she give?

She doesn't know you.

She knows this creation you've become
in Hollywood jeans
and weekend hikes without attachments.
She knows your daughters as  bait--what a great dad--your sons as accomplishments; your wife as an anchor
who held you down, held you back
when all along I thought I was your support.

She doesn't know you.

And neither do I.


April 20, 2013
On hearing of the death of the young man who'd been that tow-headed little boy.