A Birthday for Rose

It was one of the continuous new mornings of their marriage.  She was a stilted child, with a tough father, tougher than the tetanus that might sprout up from one of his rusty nails being left behind, down on pier 49.  He was stocky, silver haired - they all said he looked Irish but what did they know.  He used to slap her in the face when she would talk back (she had a smart mouth, she admits) or for wearing nail polish.  Sitting in a car, across the street from her husband's grave in the woods, she says "it must have been frustrating for him; I can't imagine it was easy at all in those days".  From those days to this one, in the woods, waiting for the tank to fill, there were those new mornings with her new male counterpart.  The one, tough rusty nails and oversized boots smelling of dirty city river water, he wasn't like this one at all.  This one was softer, fanciful, liked to tell stories and go his own way, a solid, but civilized renegade, taught all the manners that the world had forgotten, in the ruins of old empires.  She was a woman, and he the only lover she would ever have.  She may have still played with dolls, and not known much more of things, but the idea of forging forward without a hundred pre-determined ways out or final destinations was not altogether ignorant.  It required all of you.  And all she had, she gave.  In her nightie, of which famous tales were told, she brought him a tray, when he still lay in bed, as was his way.  On it, the same thing.  A shot of whiskey in a small silver cup, an heirloom and a cigarette with a book of matches for lighting (back when he smoked).  The same every time.  If you're going to forge, might as well light your way pleasurably and happily so.

The trees in those woods, that lined the tiny filling station, across the route and across the tiny, catholic cemetery, swayed mildly and flirtatiously so.  I could tell she was smiling, back there in the seat behind.  All nostalgic compartmentalizing of human beings, their roles to us, and perceptions of parental shuddering aside, I'm glad he made and left such a twinkle in her eye. 

M. Lucia