20 Years

us1992
Me: Don’t put the lettuce on the top shelf, it will freeze.
Eric: Well, clean out the fridge. There’s no room anywhere else.
Me: You can move something else to the top, just don’t put the lettuce up there.
Eric: The fridge is too full, there’s no room.
Me: Stop arguing with me.
Eric: Well, then stop talking.

From the next room, I hear Eric whistling, packing for a hike. He stops to whisper something to one of the dogs, “when you were little, you were so little, you were tiny.” I remember how I made him laugh last night – he was getting ready for bed and wearing my headlamp (he sometimes uses it for a reading light). I said “Eric Salahub prepares for his ‘climb’ into bed.” It was dumb, but he laughed really hard, which made me laugh.

The other day, following a car with the license plate “MIDWIF,” he said “mid-whiff?” and I laughed.  Encouraged, he read the license plate frame, which said “Honk if you are having a home birth” and said, in the goofiest voice, “I’m having one right now!”  It didn’t really make any sense, but I laughed. We find each other funny, even though I suspect no one else would get most of our jokes. It doesn’t matter, as long as we are laughing.

lovenotesOne time, I stayed in bed and cried for almost three days. Nothing had happened, other than I realized we were never going back to Oregon. The only time I’ve ever seen him cry was because we were losing one of our dogs, the cancer incurable – which has happened twice.

love“Tell me something good,” we say – even if it’s just “I love you,” even if it’s only that.

booklightreflectGetting in bed for the night, I notice the pattern my book light makes on the wall – broken, rippled and refracted light, as if reflecting off water. I told Eric once that it made me sad to get in to bed when the lights were all off, when it was so dark, that there was something depressing and lonely about it. Ever since, if he goes to bed before me he turns on my book light and leaves it on my pillow, even if it means he has to cover his head with the corner of a blanket to be able to sleep.

booksafeEric is gone at a conference, and I am alone. I use it as an excuse to binge. After dinner the first night (two vegetarian corn dogs, organic tater tots, and loads of ketchup), I make four slices of toast using white English muffin bread. As I wait for the toaster to pop, I think “I don’t even really want this toast, don’t need it, am not hungry for it, what I’m really hungry for is my husband, I’m lonely not hungry” but some other deeper, older part of me growls, I want toast. I spread thick butter on all four pieces, strawberry jam on two, and sit down in front of the television to eat them.  Our youngest dog Sam watches me eat, sitting in front of me, polite and intent and drooling, hoping I might share, or at least drop a piece.  I think, as I often do, “nothing can happen to Eric, I cannot be alone, if he were gone even the dogs might not be enough,” a desperate wish, a prayer whispered into space.

weddingusOn the morning of our 20th wedding anniversary, I am home sick and he emails to say he’s going to play poker on Friday. I’m missing him, feeling raw, even though when he left for work he’d told me he loved me and said “here’s to another 20 years,” and I respond to his email with questions, “You still love me, right? I’m still your favorite? You still like to be with me?” and he answers, “yes I do, yes you are and yes I do.”

He’s in the kitchen and I am at my writing desk in the back of the house, but I can still hear the radio. One dog is with him, the other sleeping at my feet.

The first time we talked, I was eating a candy bar from the vending machine, the caramel and chocolate melting sweet and thick in my mouth.

“You like Twix, too? They are my favorite.”

I swallowed. “Uh-huh.”

“I heard you’re engaged.”

I sighed and shook my head. “Yeah, that didn’t work out.”

“I know what that’s like.”

bedShoulder against shoulder, my cheek resting in the curve of your collarbone, my forehead against the side of your neck, your cheek tucked against the top of my head, skin and bone and breath, quiet and warm, comfortable and safe. Still.

Then you move, and I return to my side of the bed.

uscapefowlweather “It’s more like a poem,” he said, when I told him how hard it was to fit 20 years into only 750 words.

26 thoughts on “20 Years

  1. Anna

    Oh, this made me cry and cry. You captured what marriage can be, what it is to me, so beautifully.

    Congrats, and here’s to the next 20!

    Reply
  2. openheartproduction

    So So Sooooooooooo beautiful Jill. That deep rich love…when you feel safe, cherished by a man that just “gets you”, wouldn’t change a hair on your head , and makes you laugh…. big sigh….savour it. This made me smile today. So grateful I had that with Clyde. Cheers to 20 more years. Lean into his love…rest in it Jill. oxo love you ❤

    Reply
  3. Rita Ott Ramstad

    This is just so lovely, Jill. I am envious of your 20 years, and although I don’t have nearly that many in, I have reason to believe my high hopes this time are resting on a solid foundation. This piece helps remind me of the gifts to be had from figuring out how to do relationships. Thank you.

    Reply
  4. Jen Allen

    Happy anniversary!

    We are a year and a half in, and I hope some day I’m able to write something like this. I waited a long time to get married and our greatest challenge is my learning to be less independent and letting him help & care for me. He’s very good at it 😉

    Reply
    1. jillsalahub Post author

      Lucky you, Jen, with the helping and caring for you. ♥ What’s so interesting to me is that when I was where you are, 20 years seemed so far away, then I blinked a few times and BAM, here we are!

      Reply
  5. Joyce Cain

    I hope that 18 years from now, I still have the sweet and genuine and passionate and friendly kind of love you and Eric have in your marriage in my marriage with Luke. Congratulations, dear friend!

    Reply
  6. Pingback: Searching for Inspiration – Day 10 – 31 Days Project » Pierced Wonderings

  7. juliafehrenbacher

    Oh, dear me. My heart, Jill – you’ve touched it so. This is just pure beauty – poetry, richness. The sweetness you two share makes my heart hurt a little.

    Thank you for this.

    LOVE to you and belated Happy Anniversary wishes. xo

    Reply

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