Scenes from a Marriage

Dear One,

You can try to call me out, but it will never work. I have been doing this for as long as you have, if not more. I know the rules. The laws. The disappointment is just another capillary in the bloodstream of America, and I have swallowed it wholeheartedly.

You have not swallowed it. You gave up after twenty-some years and didn’t take this picture.

To you, it’s just a middle-aged man at a sink, exasperated with his wife. I know. I know.

Exasperated with my need to document everything. Even a bleeding finger. To post it. To show the world: this is what life is ACTUALLY like. It’s not a picnic, a corn maze, a perfect autumn afternoon.

It bleeds.

But you wouldn’t let it bleed. You wanted to stop it too soon, to pull away the paper towel and slap on the band-aid. Never mind what a doctor would tell you, a marriage doctor.

Hold it above your head. Apply pressure. Replace the paper towel five times. Have the peroxide and neosporin ready. Yet, don’t remove the paper towel, the pressure, all the pressure of the world telling you not to, before the blood stops.

Just.

Wait.

And in the waiting, you will take the time to study the video. To read every law ever written about what we can. Do. About how horribly our immigration system has failed these children who stand before us.

And if you just waited? And if you let it bleed? And if you understood?

Then you would have this pic. And a chrysanthemum for a background, filled with color. And you wouldn’t have quit. You would have taken a snapshot of twenty-three years of marriage instead.

And you would understand where I am coming from.

But instead?

Let me just post my Scene from a Marriage.

Unlike HBO, this is not a Scene from a Divorce.

Because I see the beauty in making things work, even if the law, the world, the society tells me otherwise.

Street Smarts

it’s a public street
they can’t tell us we can’t park
in an unmarked zone

rich white people suck
all the joy from their mansions
and spit it elsewhere

yet, we shall obey
for we’re mere public servants
who just can’t get home

how can one measure
twenty-five minutes a day
taken from our lives?

simple math, of course:
the same numbers measure how
we teach our students

it’s a public street
and we park on our soap box
with no microphone

CycleLife

"bikes for everyone"
is our summer camp motto
(if not, it should be)
what did we just learn?
first, bike vocabulary:
then, real practice
the best from today?
my daughter's helpful patience
(a prospective teacher)
at sixteen years old
learning to ride can be hard
(a kind heart can help)
childhood bullies
prevented her from riding
till my girl taught her

no award for this
no graduation medal
yet, better than gold

Escape

Down the hill on the way to school, negativity trails me. It builds a dark cloud over every thought, and this depressing-as-fuck audiobook in my ears doesn’t help. And it’s like I’m invisible because he doesn’t see me.

He turns left anyway, and my brakes aren’t strong enough or my reaction isn’t fast enough or my will isn’t there enough, and I feel my wheel hitting the side of his car and then everything flies. My backpack jumps out of its basket. My Mason jar of iced coffee shatters in its side pocket, dripping its sweet caffeine on the pavement. My AirPods disappear from my ears and my thoughts. My wheel gets twisted. My U-lock is somewhere in the crosswalk. Its cable lies like an impotent snake beside it. My elbow sails down through the sky and onto the ground, as bruised and swollen as my bright blue bike.

My head hurts and someone is shouting, “Call an ambulance!”

I start to move. I stand in slow motion, lifting first my bruised elbow, then each leg, foot, toe.

Nothing really hurts. The adrenaline has kicked in, and I hear the driver asking me if I’m OK, and I hear the white man in the luxury car shouting about the ambulance again, and I take off my helmet to see if my head is broken, and I move my arm and nod my head, and the driver twists my wheel back into place, and the white man commands that we exchange phone numbers, and my hands are shaking but my phone is OK, and my U-lock is scraped up and my coffee is gone and my computer is protected in its padded pocket and the driver is wearing a painter’s uniform, the white streaks and drips covering his legs and arms, and I know I will never call him.

And the white man asks for my phone number so he can send me a picture he took of his license plate, so he can be a witness, and I stand on the sidewalk and accept the text and put my phone back in its pocket and my helmet back on my head and take a selfie to send to the girls and to Fabian. The selfie includes the bruised elbow which could just have easily been a bruised brain, and I want them to see it.

“Your life is more important than your hair. Wear a helmet.”

Even in an emergency, I am still a mom, and I still have four teenagers who want to risk everything at every moment and scoff at safety and rules and regulations.

“Why are you smiling like a crazy person?” is the girls’ response. “Yes, today I will wear one,” is his.

Oh, my girls. Oh, my boy.

I start to ride away and feel the absence of sound in my ears, the awful audiobook not plaguing me, and look down into the street where multiple cars have largely ignored our small accident, and there they are: my smashed AirPods, run over again and again while I watch, before the traffic stops and I have a moment to hold their beautiful lack of sound in my palm.

And only then do the tears reach my eyes, but only the corners of my eyes.

Because I listen to books when I walk my dog, when I paddle-board, when I put together puzzles, when I drive, when I sit at camp, when I sit in my living room, when I cook dinner, when I ride my bike.

And I realize that I hit his car so hard that both flew far from me, my source of escape, my sound, my stories, and I almost forgot, and I almost left them on the street, and now they’re gone anyway, and I still know… I still know that I won’t call him and ask him to pay for them. Because he had an accent and paint on his pants and I just can’t do it. I never will because this is a minor inconvenience for me but it could mean something worse for him.

Instead I send a pic to Bruce of my broken AirPods and remind him that he has a pair at home he can’t wear because they were hurting his ears, and I ride two more miles with a golf-ball-sized bump on my elbow and beg the school secretary for ice and watch all the kids and all the teachers do the slack line, knowing I will fail if I try until Muluta, behind his long eyelashes and his red hood and his Congolese accent, says upon responding to my question, “Did you like it?”:

“I would like it more if you did it, Miss.”

And it’s like that dark shadow of negativity that trailed me on the path and hid me from the driver and knocked me on my ass is just.

Gone.

And Fabian holds my hand and I straighten my back and I walk that slack line. And this day, this life, is as bright as any other.

Even without my source of escape. Because what am I escaping from?