The Stillness of Us

It was our 26th wedding anniversary the other day. We didn’t celebrate in traditional ways except for the customary cards and flowers. There was no fancy dinner out or weekend getaway partly due to COVID-19 restrictions, partly because of other demands on our time right now. For you it was an appointment for a CT scan and X-rays at the Hospital for Special Surgery to see what can be done about your ailing back. For me it was work and reluctance to lose hours on a new job. Plus we just didn’t make any plans. We would’ve, I’m sure, if I wanted to. But, honestly, I’d rather put on my sweats and have a bowl of  your homemade chili than fine dine out. I’d rather watch another episode of The Americans sitting beside you on the couch with our two little dogs on our laps than go to the theatre even if it were possible. I’m content at the end of a day to curl up with a good book next to you in our bed, and contentment, I’ve found, is the best of it – marriage – for me. I discovered that during quarantine.

Recently, I dug out our wedding albums again as I have every year around this time. The photos of the church ceremony and afternoon reception at the Montauk Club in Park Slope, Brooklyn that we managed on a shoestring budget never change. It was a glorious sunny day in October, our family and friends were smiling on us, we were dewy-eyed and joyful in every shot; and yet over the years, I’ve seen those pictures differently. Sadly, I was more apt to see flaws than the happiness I felt as a young(ish) bride. I saw underexposed family portraits, crooked candles in the candelabras, the exit sign prominently displayed over our heads during our dance. Your vintage tux that I once found charming looked outdated, your bold short hair became offensive in my eyes as if you purposely got the worst haircut of your life for our wedding. And the enchanted dress I stumbled on in an obscure Soho boutique and bought for a song, appeared ill-fitting on my emaciated body. It was as though a dark curtain had lowered over my eyes.

For many of our years together, I’ve been aware of the muzak in my head looping songs of dissatisfaction: not enough affection, not enough money, not enough help, not enough… Sometimes I believed the haunted lyrics and blamed you, other times I recognized I was scapegoating you for my own imagined failings. Sometimes I sought help in therapy and support groups, mostly I ran by keeping busy with work and other worthy endeavors that kept me out of the house. Then the pandemic hit, the numbers in New York spiked, shelter-in-place was put into effect, and I had to stay home with you. And myself.

At first, the muzak got loud, so loud it was Tasmanian Devilish. But, I noted quickly that the noise was a monologue – there was only one little devil in my head. So, in the space and quiet of COVID-19, I faced my muzak. I meditated, prayed, journaled, talked with an empathetic friend with a good therapist she could quote, and was enlightened in so many ways. I won’t enumerate my childhood wounds and misguided survival tactics here, suffice to say I learned that you weren’t my enemy. Rather you’re my teacher, my friend, my steadfast love, and I thank g*d you had enough sand in your bottom to bounce back every time I threw a punch. I’m so grateful you hung in there until time and weather softened my eyes and I became still enough to hear the actual beating of my heart.

In one of our wedding photos, I’m feeding you cake. It’s a traditional wedding shot, there’s nothing particularly special about it, and yet for some reason this year I looked at it more closely. I saw me leaning in, encouraging you to eat like a mother pleased to be spooning vegetables past the closed lips of a child. I saw you with your mouth wide open, trusting that I would not punk you by smearing cake on your face or retracting the fork at the last moment. I saw the truth: your hand was helping mine to steady the plate.