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Reprinted with permission from Minnesota Monthly magazine. | ||||||
 VISIT MINNESOTA MONTHLY ON THE WEB | |
We were married 12 years before we gave up and went our separate ways, and I still miss having a husband sometimes. I've not had many boyfriends, but I don't want another. They come and go like casual visitors. I want a husband of 20 years, one who knows who I am and likes me anyway. I imagine him in a big, plump chair, legs stretched out on the ottoman, bifocals stuck on the end of his nose, hair receding and gray. I hope I'd feel some affection for that paunch he'd always vow to lose next summer. I'd love the sight of my cat curled in his lap. I want to know why one marriage, just as unlikely as another, lasts. Does God stick his long, bony finger down and poke this one, this one, and this one to survive? And then does he say, "You, you, and you - go it alone?" My married friends sometimes complain bitterly about their mates' shortcomings, then offer advice about how they've made it last. Tolerance and commitment, they say, but I did that for years and my marriage still fizzled out like a day-old Alka Seltzer. Most of the time I don't even think about being part of a couple. Most of the time I'm content with single life, which is also filled with sensory pleasures. The lush, gypsy orange of the butterfly plant, radiant against the deep magenta of New Guinea impatiens in my garden. A remote control that is mine, all mine. The luxury of doing what I want, when I want-it's a good life, one I've chosen. But today started out cold and rainy, with an unseasonable chill that made me yearn to put my arms around a warm, comfy, flannel-shirted husband. The house was silent. The cats were tucked together in the towel closet, their paws covering their eyes. I felt like doing that, too. It was one of those days when I wished I'd asked a whole lot more from life. At the same time, I've been around long enough to not quite trust my longings. Later on, the sun came out and I went for a walk in the neighborhood. An elderly couple tottered in front of me, arm in arm. They'd grown thinner and frailer each year, and usually evoked my pity. But today their animated conversation and laughter hung in the air like the twitter of two birds in a ginkgo tree. Striding along, I muttered to myself an oft-visited question, "Why not me? Why don't I have that?" I turned into a street that was overflowing with peonies, their lacy heads bending toward the newly green grass, globes of rain shimmering on their petals. The first one I passed was a deep rose color, large as a pie plate. Impulsively, I broke it off, leaving a long, ragged stem. The next bush was white, with rose ruffles, the blooms so thick and curly they looked like the feathered breasts of exotic birds. I picked more, snapping their stems as cleanly as I could, glancing guiltily at the houses, ashamed but unable to stop. Pompoms of pale pink stretched their arms toward me. Soon I was picking from every bush, loading my arms with peonies. A curtain moved in one house, a face looked out the door of another, but no one tried to stop me. Perhaps they knew that I deserved this - and more. Perhaps they thought I had come undone. Perhaps they didn't care. That night I slept with the gossamer fragrance of peonies in the air. For almost a week, the magnificent bouquet of my longing sat on the nightstand, gradually losing its brightness, drooping more each day. I'm glad I didn't have to watch them shrivel away. One night I came home to find my cat sitting beside the vase, pulling off peony petals, which fluttered to the floor, not unlike the way they'd fallen from the flower girls' fingers so many years before. The petals fell around my feet, floating out over the hardwood floor, drifting away. mm Sonjie Johnson is a St. Paul freelance writer | ||||
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