Mother & Father

I think my father and my mother loved each other very much, even if they did not understand each other at all. I think it was an arranged marriage of sorts, almost political. This family merges with this family and lives prosper. There was no underlying resentment as far as I know, but they had entirely different ways on handling their marriage.

My father was a romantic. He would buy extravagantly, almost riches of embarrassment to my mother, on foolhardy occasions, making his conquest to top the last extravagance that much more difficult. She thanked him for his pleasantries, made love with him at least enough to grant him 2 children, and behaved as a devoted caretaker.

He would write sonnets, poems, lyre tributes... all in her name. She would smile, nod accordingly, and move on to the stove's grease gatherings with her apron in hand.

When his business failed, she held onto his shoulders, grazing her fingertips against his neck, and brushing her nails gently against the edges of his hair. She comforted him, gave him peace in a time he was certain he would lose her, us, his home, and hid dignity. She held him close to her in front of the fireplace, but never said anything about how they would eventually get back on their feet (she probably assumed we wouldn't), or that believed in his struggle and how we would persevere even in the economic ice age we were facing. She said nothing of the sort.

My mother did not like to assume things would get better, or worse, or remain the same. "We will know what happens when daylight wakes us up," she said once in a very purposeful if not entirely useful way, "and until then, we can dream as much as we like." She used the word "dream" negatively, as if to say (actually not as if, but definitely to say) that when we did get that glare of morning realization, the dreams will have served no purpose. They offered no truth or clarity. They were just fantasy; they would relate to nothing in the end. It was what we did when awake that truly mattered.

The business did get back on it's feet, my father managed to ensure we kept our home away from the lenders, and their marriage continued. When the lean years went and we all got fat again, my father would repeatedly chuckle, swirl his bride around the kitchen, and comment how she kept him fighting all along and it was through the strength she provided to him that kept him going. She would nod, smile, and gently caress his face while he shouted her praises. She would soon after find herself focused on another task, such as shining the candlesticks, or making a list of grocery items.

My father would leave the kitchen, and continue on through the house, dreaming of the woman who stood by him, and how lucky he was to have her. My mother would continue with her list, or begin contemplating whether the silver polish was beginning to weaken.