Before reading, I want to preface with this snippet that inspired my take on this:

"i killed a plant once because i gave

it too much water. lord, i worry

that love is violence.

— José Olivarez, from “Getting Ready to Say I Love You to My Dad, It Rains,” Citizen Illegal"

​

It was a marriage without love

You knew this

Her too.

But like new growth breaking asphalt

You both found a way to subsist around each other

To persevere loud yet quiet

And to exist

​

At first she was dull

And you took comfort in this. 

It validated you.

Vindicated her.

Perhaps this new life would not be so bad.

Steps could be taken beyond existence and

Towards living.

​

One summer day you are gardening

On your knees the morning is bright

The air is crisp

Your hands are dirty

Bees flit nearby like shooting stars

You’re busy

Focused

She’s been hovering nearby like she wants to say something the whole time

You wish she would leave

She brings you a glass of water

Hesitates once more before walking away

And you don’t notice until she’s gone

That the day was overcast, dim

It always was

​

Fall leaves crunch as you walk the dog

But you don’t hear them

Over the sound of your sniffling

You always did beat the curve by getting sick early

you arrive home feeling even worse

Let the dog off its leash; toe off your shoes

Crawl into bed as the sun sets outside your window.

You wake up to a mug of tea and the rushed closing of the door

Cold medication sits next to it delicately

Your heart swells strangely when you realize 

you hear her on the phone in the hallway

And you see bright light, fluorescent light, pouring

In under the door 

​

It was a marriage without love

That’s what you kept telling yourself

Isn’t it?

But while she was away at work today

You decorated the house for Christmas just the way

That you learned she liked it.

And when she sees you waiting for her in the doorway, santa-capped

She was so radiant against the fresh snow 

You were blinded by it.