A couple of years ago,
I could not decide
if I wanted a bachelor’s life
or if I was ready
to plunge into marriage,
settle down as people around me called it.
I should have known one way for sure by thirty-seven, I thought.
But I didn’t,
no more perhaps
than I had ever known before.

What differed now was that I’d found a woman
who’d take me for me,
who’d match and even surpass my crazy,
who’d reply fluently when I spoke in made-up words,
who’d enjoy a freewheeling trip or two
where we would decide our next move on the go,
sleeping bags and tents crammed in backpacks,
jumping over ditches,
and sometimes one of us landing in them.
What differed was that
I would take her for her,
but I think that was the easier of the two –
I didn’t really mind watching chefs cooking on TV
while pretending to hate the show.

And that was enough
to gather courage,
to toss faith aside,
to walk down the aisle
into a church as a non-Christian
even though to a superficial eye,
it did not look different
from a Catholic wedding.
Funny how my uncertainty dissolved
the instant I decided to exchange rings,
how it vanished
like a dream I thought I had
and really never did.


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