Sad Wife

I grew melancholy after my first marriage, too.
But I attributed that to post grad school blues
and funerals
and identity crises.

It got us into therapy, which was good.
(I wonder how much money we spent
sitting on couches over the next fifteen years.

Clearly not enough.)

That first time, I sat in the rented house
on Fourth Street in Columbus
and sewed curtains
and watched reruns of Mary Tyler Moore
and cried.

I wonder if that scared you.

That first therapist wanted to make your childhood
into something sinister
but there was nothing lurking behind the facade.
The Myers-Briggs was helpful, though.
Things made more sense after that.

And then fifteen years passed
and we were someone’s parents
with mortgages and debt
and I stopped wearing all five earrings all at once.

And the melancholy must have been lost in New Orleans
or packed away with all the baby things
or forgotten in the apartment on Williams Fork Trail.

After that, sorrow always had a cause
and the effects were always tragically obvious.
Not this mysterious weight that has no name
and sits behind my breasts
frightening you, brave husband number two.

You who wake up joyful every day,
who has such utter faith in me
and proffers all your love without a string in sight.

How impossible I am, how wrong to live
in my magical life
and yet confess this gentle sadness in my eyes
and stuffed up in my throat.

I have no explanation.

except divorce and death and fear
and loss and love and lack of follow-through
and laziness and self-esteem
and loneliness and fraud and grief.

But then so do you, too,
yet you are fine to jump right up each day
and celebrate the sunshine or the storm.

My grandmother was mad.

Perhaps this is her legacy to me
and I should simply pin it to my collar
like a brooch
and wear it without fear or shame or guilt.

I think that I would rather ride a bike.
Or walk along the boardwalk holding hands.

I’d rather sleep in late or read a book
or make sweet love to you or draw a bath.

I’d rather bake a pie or make a cake
or take you out to lunch and sit outside
watching the people walking through their lives
on their way to the therapist’s or their OB appointments.

Watching the rotating blooms of flowers on the mall
and the various hats on the cart by the courthouse.

Watching the sad girls and the gentle boys
loving each other the best that they can.