Marriage

One of my daily prayers is, "Open my eyes. Open me eyes so I may see." Like prayer, poetry does the same thing: softening, opening, drawing me into re-spect: seeing anew.

One day I was feeling sad about giving up my bedding - my giant reading pillows, favorite comforter, and ancient beloved pillow when my husband developed an allergy to them. I'm sensitive to textures, and the weight of my comforter is like a weighted blanket, soothing my nervous system. Giving these up was hard.

But then I remembered how I changed all our bed linens when I first moved into his apartment. And I never asked his opinion as I took over the decorating. A hem.

This poem came as a result.

P.S. - My son got the reading pillows and blue blanket and loves them. The dog has claimed the comforter as her favorite cuddle spot on its new bed. My pillow, that trusty old friend, wasn't good for much else besides a donation to the Humane Society.

Marriage by Karly Randolph Pitman

You once thought love
was made of grand gestures.
Instead you've learned that love
is giving up your favorite pillow
and blanket when your husband
becomes allergic to their feathers.
For a moment you feel the sting of loss.
But then you remember
your twenty two year old self
giving away her husband's plaid sheets,
remaking the bed in soft white.
You pause, breathe in both beds.
It took twenty nine years
for you to understand
the heft of his generosity,
to behold the room
you've learned to make for each other.

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With a grateful heart, Karly