Deea RomanescoHappy Anniversary, Darling!
By Deea Romanesco
First, you asked R. to come with you to the greenhouse a friend of yours tended. She didn’t. Then you asked A. She didn’t either, despite the magic of a tiny turtle living there amongst the greenery. You never asked me to go with you to see her, but late at night, with a beer in your hand, you, who were always silent, said I love you. I looked around despite knowing that it was only the two of us, celebrating a tragedy averted. And as I wanted out and you wanted in, it seemed like a fair trade. Love? We knew nothing about… I put my beer bottle down and looked through you. “If that’s the case, let’s get married.”
We had a wedding; I, a monster bride covered in cabbage-like white lace layers, you in beige. With godparents on each of our sides, holding long, ornate candles to be lit again, we walked around a table holding holy relics. I was then told to multiply like unto Rachel and you to be like Jacob. The crown placed on your head didn’t fit your too-big head, and the priest wondered aloud. “That never happened before, and I’m marrying people for the past fifty years.” Everyone laughed, and I almost fainted because the fumes from the candles were getting thick inside the priest’s small house where we had gotten God’s blessing, since churchgoing at the time could have affected our godparents’ careers. My father interrupted God and took me outside, then, we returned to finish what we started. Mom frowned, because only through suffering do we find redemption for being born. Since then, one godparent passed, and the others are just as far. They’re still there, all together, beside us, in old pictures.
Years passed. We lost a train because we were talking, sitting on a bench screwed into the cement of the platform, our backs to the train that came and left. We moved across the world, not once but a few times. We built a home, then broke it and rebuilt it again. We fell short of making Rachel and Jacob proud, but we did better than that: we have the only son we ever wanted, so perhaps God was involved in our story after all.
Twenty-five years later, we exchanged silver rings and swore again to stay together, in sickness and in health. Once again, new, chosen godparents stood beside us, candles lit, this time in a church borrowed from a different faith, but the words spoken were ours. We partied and danced afterwards, and I made a cake for a known stranger who celebrated with us because it was his birthday too, not only our silver anniversary. And we forgot what we were celebrating. Maybe life. Our godparents are in now-old photographs, beside us, holding the candles, then lit.
You are always the one forgetting our special day, but last year I did too, despite pretending that it wasn’t so. I’m waiting for the train to come, but I know none will; the rail station is now abandoned. I stubbornly sit on the bench, waiting for the blaring whistle, the clacking of the wheels, and its last hissing breath before it stops. I’m trying to remember how I forgot you. How I forgot us.
The count increased to thirty-eight years without us counting. Perhaps I should have waited until forty, but some years ago, we celebrated another couple’s fortieth anniversary. They’re not with us any longer, but only in old photos. We’re alone, as we’ve always been. No godparents, no one else remembers us, but I do now. I stand up and leave behind me the station where no train is ever going to come. And as you’re bringing me a tea, let me ask you something.
“Would you do me the honor of marrying me? Again?”