Proposal
In my peripheral vision is James. Mr. K., as his adoring students call him. My second husband and lost love.
James. Not the alpha male, but content in his own skin. And very fine, brown skin down his long back and well-formed arms indeed! The curl of dark hair touching his tanned neck I still recall. James, the sensual man, the nature lover. Tall, lean frame astride a BMW or the bike de jour, leaning into a turn rides my memory as an archetype. The peaceful warrior, the knight in black leather.
James, we lived through so much B.S. with the mission church turning to a cult. I tried so hard to be the perfect wife that it really wasn’t your fault I lost touch with you. I had already been a guilty bystander to so much strangeness that my intimacy was incapacitated. So-called “prayer” drove me to isolation. And, how could you know the black hook Gloria II grabbed my heart with, that unhappy woman being the reincarnation of my violent/schizo alcoholic father? So, I can own it was revealed that you married a girl tied to the fear trip of surviving her daddy. But was my bit of neurosis really reason to abandon me?
With very frightening people I walk very carefully, not wanting to make waves with Gloria II. You left, afraid, at least able to articulate your fear. I was numb. Or the remnant brethren ran you off. But the point was, you left without me. You said you needed space. I thought you were already emotionally tied into women at your job, or at least one. After all, we met in unfaithfulness to our first spouses.
James had the wide territory of my heart. Yet, his Leave-It-To-Beaver Willow Glen heritage made him hide in “keeping it positive.” Mr. K, I could not tell you my problems, nor speak what was wrong with me. I was becoming something monstrous and while you watched from your superior perch. I had to bear it alone, like your alcoholic Mom. I winced at how superior you acted around her and should have known I’d wind up in the same brain map, sooner or later.
So I broke our legal bond, with the most deliberate sadness ever. It was March 4th when I had the papers served. I fiercely wanted not to love someone who would walk by me weeping piteously on his recliner while he collected his Fiesta ware and homemade jam. Your apologetic air wasn’t enough to save me. Years later, I would stop looking back in regret, and stop longing for the simple comfort we took in each other. The ache of seeing another put his arm around his girl, or two being silly in a grocery store. The pain of spring blossoms screaming I’m alone without you.
Once we walked, you as Abe Lincoln in a 4th of July parade, which suited you to a T. I, of course, worked well as the short wife, eccentric and supposedly mentally ill. I remember that now, since Speilberg’s film is out. I rankle with the memory that you actually wrote Gloria II you thought I had a history of mental illness, assuming my sibling suicides qualified you to be superior. Trying to take the world view of a fundamentalist and losing the love of my life…tested my sanity all right. Yes, I seemed crazy trying to loathe someone I loved.
And that’s not the real tragedy. Not the great loss. The lie of a sealed system of “correct” belief that was paraded as salvation was tragic. The unabated emotional cruelty of cult leadership was obscene. However, the sad piece is that I married you when I never believed you’d stay with me. Was it all my self-full filling prophesy, or should I have trusted my intuition and turned you down the second time you proposed?
James. Not the alpha male, but content in his own skin. And very fine, brown skin down his long back and well-formed arms indeed! The curl of dark hair touching his tanned neck I still recall. James, the sensual man, the nature lover. Tall, lean frame astride a BMW or the bike de jour, leaning into a turn rides my memory as an archetype. The peaceful warrior, the knight in black leather.
James, we lived through so much B.S. with the mission church turning to a cult. I tried so hard to be the perfect wife that it really wasn’t your fault I lost touch with you. I had already been a guilty bystander to so much strangeness that my intimacy was incapacitated. So-called “prayer” drove me to isolation. And, how could you know the black hook Gloria II grabbed my heart with, that unhappy woman being the reincarnation of my violent/schizo alcoholic father? So, I can own it was revealed that you married a girl tied to the fear trip of surviving her daddy. But was my bit of neurosis really reason to abandon me?
With very frightening people I walk very carefully, not wanting to make waves with Gloria II. You left, afraid, at least able to articulate your fear. I was numb. Or the remnant brethren ran you off. But the point was, you left without me. You said you needed space. I thought you were already emotionally tied into women at your job, or at least one. After all, we met in unfaithfulness to our first spouses.
James had the wide territory of my heart. Yet, his Leave-It-To-Beaver Willow Glen heritage made him hide in “keeping it positive.” Mr. K, I could not tell you my problems, nor speak what was wrong with me. I was becoming something monstrous and while you watched from your superior perch. I had to bear it alone, like your alcoholic Mom. I winced at how superior you acted around her and should have known I’d wind up in the same brain map, sooner or later.
So I broke our legal bond, with the most deliberate sadness ever. It was March 4th when I had the papers served. I fiercely wanted not to love someone who would walk by me weeping piteously on his recliner while he collected his Fiesta ware and homemade jam. Your apologetic air wasn’t enough to save me. Years later, I would stop looking back in regret, and stop longing for the simple comfort we took in each other. The ache of seeing another put his arm around his girl, or two being silly in a grocery store. The pain of spring blossoms screaming I’m alone without you.
Once we walked, you as Abe Lincoln in a 4th of July parade, which suited you to a T. I, of course, worked well as the short wife, eccentric and supposedly mentally ill. I remember that now, since Speilberg’s film is out. I rankle with the memory that you actually wrote Gloria II you thought I had a history of mental illness, assuming my sibling suicides qualified you to be superior. Trying to take the world view of a fundamentalist and losing the love of my life…tested my sanity all right. Yes, I seemed crazy trying to loathe someone I loved.
And that’s not the real tragedy. Not the great loss. The lie of a sealed system of “correct” belief that was paraded as salvation was tragic. The unabated emotional cruelty of cult leadership was obscene. However, the sad piece is that I married you when I never believed you’d stay with me. Was it all my self-full filling prophesy, or should I have trusted my intuition and turned you down the second time you proposed?