In that period
I didn’t have milk on my cereal
And I didn’t have cereal
My wheels were turning slowly
In the other direction
I’d come flying
Down Route 177 into spring’s fast panting
With the windows rolled up
I could say it in twang
As good as not
My voice cracking beneath me
I ain’t never been there
I knew the salty lips of desire
And the lips, too
Of the space rape punctured into
When I soaped behind my ears
I uprooted that spring
With all of its bounty
Still clinging to my hair
My relationship with my wife, however, transcends the circumstance. If we feel ourselves drift, we reach out our hands and grasp tightly, because I choose to remain at her side, and she at mine. And if I ever look over to find that we’ve somehow lost sight of each other — both now walking alone and lost in that cold night — I will grab a torch and search for her until I find her again.
She is my mission, my life’s work, and I’d sooner give up my life than give up on her.
So we wake up every morning, sort of the same, but sort of new. We look at each other, we introduce ourselves again, and we choose to love who we see.
We choose to love. And that’s the only thing that will never change.