the other hand, doesn’t cry. I’ve never seen him cry. I’m sure there’s some psychological explanation for it, other than being an orphan and having to stay strong through the countless foster parents he’s lived with in his lifetime, like our (long gone) marriage counselor proclaimed. Somewhere below his skin is Lake Eyre—only once every thirty-odd years does that dry salt lake in central Australia flood.
There may not be tears to show my husband’s emotions, but I’ve seen how the melancholy turns his insuperable face pale with grief every time we talk about his deceased ex-wife, Angelica; a stunning, tall, olive-skinned Latina. My looks don’t compare to hers one bit. I sometimes wonder whether Alex still loves her. After all, her loss was not his choice.
Patti’s long gray hair hangs loose and scraggly over her eyes. She emanates an aura so potent that you have to look twice to realize she’s dressed in an unflattering flannel shirt and jeans. I want to be her, drenched in visible inner-beauty.
As I look up at the stage I wonder if I ever knew her in a previous life. The atmosphere in this theatre and Patti’s presence feel so familiar and accessible to me I could catch it in a jar, put it on my mantle like ashes in an urn, and take sips from it every now and then as if it were an elixir for life.
I gulp down the last of Alex’s whiskey from his white plastic cup, crush it in my hand and squash it into his back jean pocket. I close my eyes; soaking up the melodious warmth travelling through my chest as one particular lyric Patti sings catches my attention. I open my eyes, watch her gifted thick lips move against her gaunt face; her jagged raw beauty weeping with roaring passion. She sings something about there being a wind over our land and that we live not to die but to be reborn. And right at this moment, relief flushes through me like holy water cleansing me of sin. Maybe not all is lost if I don’t pursue my dream? Perhaps I’ll have the chance to do so in my next life? Should I be patient, appreciate what I already have—take advantage of the good that already exists in my life?
If only I could remember this relief in the midst of a bout of my daily “what ifs.” I signal to Alex to pass Tessa onto my shoulders for a while so that we can share a bit of dancing frenzy. I have a sudden urge to really just have some fun and to share it with my daughter. It would be better if she were a little older, but I suppose by the time she’s old enough to appreciate having a bit of fun at a rock concert, she wouldn’t want to be appreciating it with me—so I take the chance now.
But it doesn’t last long enough. Tessa forgets whose shoulders she is on and swings her limbs around like a rag doll in a washing machine. I wince in silence as she accidentally whacks me in the face with her orange patent leather shoe. I tried really hard to get her to wear the black pair, but she’d insisted. I pass her back to Alex and we exchange head shakes. His meaning, “What’s wrong?” Mine, meaning “Can’t do it.”
When we return home from the concert, Tessa is asleep, hanging over Alex’s shoulder, her arms dangling down his back like thick rope. Our elevator is still out of order. We climb the eight flights of marble stairs listening to our breath and footsteps echo through the building. Exhausted, Alex puts Tessa to bed, and we both collapse on the couch in front of the TV. Alex has an absent smile on his face—one of those smiles we aren’t often aware of, but that bloom like flowers triggered by sudden sunshine.
“Must have been nice going to a gig where you didn’t have to run around networking,” I say. Alex twitches his head in my direction as if I have disrupted his sleep.
“Sorry?” he asks, eyebrows raised, resting his elbow on the left arm rest, and chin on his hand. “Oh, yeah. It was cool.”
A few moments of silence pass as I watch the blue TV light flash on his still
There may not be tears to show my husband’s emotions, but I’ve seen how the melancholy turns his insuperable face pale with grief every time we talk about his deceased ex-wife, Angelica; a stunning, tall, olive-skinned Latina. My looks don’t compare to hers one bit. I sometimes wonder whether Alex still loves her. After all, her loss was not his choice.
Patti’s long gray hair hangs loose and scraggly over her eyes. She emanates an aura so potent that you have to look twice to realize she’s dressed in an unflattering flannel shirt and jeans. I want to be her, drenched in visible inner-beauty.
As I look up at the stage I wonder if I ever knew her in a previous life. The atmosphere in this theatre and Patti’s presence feel so familiar and accessible to me I could catch it in a jar, put it on my mantle like ashes in an urn, and take sips from it every now and then as if it were an elixir for life.
I gulp down the last of Alex’s whiskey from his white plastic cup, crush it in my hand and squash it into his back jean pocket. I close my eyes; soaking up the melodious warmth travelling through my chest as one particular lyric Patti sings catches my attention. I open my eyes, watch her gifted thick lips move against her gaunt face; her jagged raw beauty weeping with roaring passion. She sings something about there being a wind over our land and that we live not to die but to be reborn. And right at this moment, relief flushes through me like holy water cleansing me of sin. Maybe not all is lost if I don’t pursue my dream? Perhaps I’ll have the chance to do so in my next life? Should I be patient, appreciate what I already have—take advantage of the good that already exists in my life?
If only I could remember this relief in the midst of a bout of my daily “what ifs.” I signal to Alex to pass Tessa onto my shoulders for a while so that we can share a bit of dancing frenzy. I have a sudden urge to really just have some fun and to share it with my daughter. It would be better if she were a little older, but I suppose by the time she’s old enough to appreciate having a bit of fun at a rock concert, she wouldn’t want to be appreciating it with me—so I take the chance now.
But it doesn’t last long enough. Tessa forgets whose shoulders she is on and swings her limbs around like a rag doll in a washing machine. I wince in silence as she accidentally whacks me in the face with her orange patent leather shoe. I tried really hard to get her to wear the black pair, but she’d insisted. I pass her back to Alex and we exchange head shakes. His meaning, “What’s wrong?” Mine, meaning “Can’t do it.”
When we return home from the concert, Tessa is asleep, hanging over Alex’s shoulder, her arms dangling down his back like thick rope. Our elevator is still out of order. We climb the eight flights of marble stairs listening to our breath and footsteps echo through the building. Exhausted, Alex puts Tessa to bed, and we both collapse on the couch in front of the TV. Alex has an absent smile on his face—one of those smiles we aren’t often aware of, but that bloom like flowers triggered by sudden sunshine.
“Must have been nice going to a gig where you didn’t have to run around networking,” I say. Alex twitches his head in my direction as if I have disrupted his sleep.
“Sorry?” he asks, eyebrows raised, resting his elbow on the left arm rest, and chin on his hand. “Oh, yeah. It was cool.”
A few moments of silence pass as I watch the blue TV light flash on his still
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