Friday, June 19, 2009

Hear Her

Jun 19, 2009
Caroline was fairly certain she was married to a man who somehow could not hear her. It's as if her voice was muddled by the same sound engineers who produced Charlie Brown or perhaps his ears were simply broken.

Sitting at the dinner table one night she read from her favorite poems in the New Yorker summer fiction edition while he sat on the couch watching a movie they'd seen a thousand times before in their two year marriage, she quite frankly said, "I don't think I want to be married to you forever. I love you for who you are and what you've done for me, but I simply don't think I can stay married. I am just not that soul. Please don't be angry, I just can't promise you forever."

He did not hear her.

Walking in a park overlooking the Pacific Ocean a year later with another fiction edition in hand she reminded him that she'd never had a perpetually faithful soul. She was grateful for the time they'd spent together but knew they had grown so much in their union, they'd actually grown apart. "You were too good to me. You incubated my heart in a way that nobody else could. You taught me to live again independently, think again with force, read again with passion, and now we've out grown one-another." He squeezed her hand tightly and smiled but

He would not hear her.

Another year had gone by and Caroline pushed along the stroller of their new-born wishing she'd had time to read the issue that had arrived in the mail a few weeks back. "I know it seems we need each other logically, but emotionally it's gone my darling. You are dear and kind and I thank you for the blessing of my sweet child, but I have fallen in love with someone else. I want to end this amicably and stay friends because I will always care for you. I need to explore again." He took the stroller from her hand and suggested she take some time to read the New Yorker but

He did not hear her.

On their fifth anniversary they celebrated with a night away and champagne in the same hotel where they had spent their wedding night. Over dinner Caroline showed him a poem she had written about her wanderlust soul which had been printed in the New Yorker summer fiction issue. In black and white it simply must be heard. "I love you so please forgive me because we cannot stay married forever. I cannot be true, I will not be able to hold on much longer." He smiled and sipped his gin and tonic and commented that she looked pretty in red.

He would not hear her.

Married for six years, Caroline sat next to him holding his hand and watching their daughter waddle around the room. Her tears fell softly onto the white cotton blanket that covered his lap. The New Yorker sat next to her on the faux leather chair with another published poem, a realized dream. "I love you, I love you, I will love you always. Please don't leave me, not this soon. I couldn't promise you forever, but I just want another day. Please stay, please don't die."

He could not hear her.  

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