Two weeks before
we share our vows,
in my Miller
Hospital
x-ray scrubs, I sit
a lull in the
activity
of the morning
exams
with Helen, a
fellow
wheel chair jockey.
Closely she
examines me,
“Do you want to
have
a happy marriage?”
I
nod in affirmation.
“Do you know the
secret?”
“No,” slips quietly
from
my lips, “Do you
want
to know?” “Yes, of
course.” Her eyes
flash behind her
glasses,
accentuating
her words, “The
courting
never ends. The
courting never
ends.”
She reads the
puzzlement
that paints my
face,
with exclamation
points
behind each word
she emphasizes,
“You
must never stop
dating your wife.”
Stories of Friday
night
steak dinners, with
her deceased lover
of many years,
during a shared
lifetime peppered
with want and
plenty.
Her words repeated
until locked In my
subconscious, our
brief, intense
encounter
interrupted by the
needs of another
hospital patient.
I sit here with you
on our date night,
our baby in a high
chair, our two
very young sons
at their places
around the small
rectangular table
in our kitchen.
Two Dairy Bar
pizzas,
a pepperoni for the
boys, the supreme
for you and me,
Gerbers for the
baby,
a poor substitute
for steak on a
Friday night, but
one meal you will
not cook, just
enjoy.
Date night
is not what it
once was, but
our love requires
some small gesture
even in poverty,
of just being with
each other, two
lovers with the
evidence of their
love around them,
enjoying a piece
of locally made
pizza, with the
words
of an old German
x-ray aide echoing
from long before,
“The courting never
ends. The courting
never ends.”
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