Monday, December 26, 2005

another evening passing slowly

Tonight I made split pea soup with carrots, potatoes and celery. I made enough to feed ten people. I have never been able to cook a small amount of food. I will eat leftovers tomorrow and the next day and maybe there will still be some Thursday when Hoot and Andree come back. Maybe they will like it.

I went to the library earlier. I had this foolish notion that I would check out some of the new releases that look so promising: Joan Didion's new memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking; Weight by Jeanette Winterson, I'm such a sucker for her; and whatever collection has the short story that Brokeback Mountain is based on. Of course, none of those books was available. Instead I browsed. I ended up with some poetry collections and the Idiot's Guide to German Shepherd Dogs. I currently have this idea that I want a German Shepherd. Loyal, intelligent, independent, fierce. I want in a dog what I want in a partner. Except I don't want a partner. I want a dog.

And on that note, I was reading the German Shepherd book and ran across this sentiment: that to get a dog is to make a serious commitment, the book wanted to know if I was willing to care for the dog for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. I flashed, in that unsuspecting moment, on CB. I married CB in March of 2005, during that brief window of opportunity for queer couples to marry. We were married on the sidewalk outside the Multnomah Building by an officiant of some undefined faith who had driven up from California to volunteer on this momentous occasion. Though he did not ask us to recite those common words of marriage, they hung in our cultural memory as we signed our certificate and shook his hand and he said simply "I pronounce you married, congratulations." And even though our marriage was effectively nullified by a voter-approved amendment to the state constitution and a series of unfavorable judicial opinions, we always considered ourselves married. I was always her wife. She was always my wife.

For better or worse, in sickness and in health. CB's drinking problem is "worse," is definitely "sickness." And yet, I left. I left her for worse, I left her in sickness. I looked at those words on the page and felt a punch in the stomach. I left. I left.

Most of the time I am happy with my decision. In most of my mind, most of my body, I know I've done the right thing. But sometimes I feel guilty and sad, I feel regret and longing, I feel like I abandoned her, I feel like an awful, selfish, shallow child. And this, I suppose, is just part of it. I still wear my wedding band, but I wear it now on my right hand. I still love her. Of course I still love her.

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