He told me to turn around, that if we took the picture from this angle, the sun was in it, but I wanted the sun in it, right over our heads, the flares of light blurring our faces.
Not much has changed in 23 years, unless you count just about everything. At the beginning, I thought by this point that if we made it this far together things would be easy. I didn’t understand that adulting would be so hard, that so many awful things would happen, to us and around us. I thought I was stronger, saner. I thought if I was with him, if we were together, the ordinary magic of that would surround us, protect us from the bad stuff.
And yet it has, in a way. I’m not sure if I’d still be here if it weren’t for his love and support, the way he makes me laugh. The partnership, the rub of having someone always there, can at times be irritating, but it’s also the glue that keeps it all from falling apart.
And I know I already shared it last month, but it seems right to post it here again, especially today: In this month’s issue of Sun Magazine they shared a beautiful poem, “A Marriage” by Michael Blumenthal, that feels especially true to me.
You are holding up a ceiling
with both arms. It is very heavy,
but you must hold it up, or else
it will fall down on you. Your arms
are tired, terribly tired,
and, as the day goes on, it feels
as if either your arms or the ceiling
will soon collapse.
something wonderful happens:
a man or a woman,
walks into the room
and holds their arms up
to the ceiling beside you.
So you finally get
to take down your arms.
You feel the relief of respite,
the blood flowing back
to your fingers and arms.
And when your partner’s arms tire,
you hold up your own
to relieve him again.
And it can go on like this
for many years
without the house falling.
Here’s to another 23 years taking turns holding up the ceiling, keeping the house from falling. I love you, Mr. Salahub. You are my favorite.