At the Choral Concert & At the Library [Anniversary Poems]
AT THE CHORAL CONCERT
This is the first time I attend without you
and I am unsure what to do with myself.
I choose an empty pew in the back,
offer polite nods when I lock eyes
with someone else and sit quietly
in this old church with its glass windows
and vaulted wooden ceiling.
When the singing begins, the choir
a blooming spring field across the stage,
I exhale. The room fills with a harmony
that unsettles our poise, disrupts our
collective stillness. I clasp my hands and
unclasp them. I place them on my legs and
rest them on my chest. My body moves in rhythm,
and something seems to unfurl within me.
I keep still. Voices rise and fall. Pipe organs
build up fiercely without harshness. It is late,
the world restless with its needs, and here I am,
suspended in the mystery of this moment that
will soon end. I want to do with the sound,
this delicate and fervent sound, what I do
with all my ordinary delights—share it with you.
I look around and see old couples sitting close,
a boy whispering to a girl who leans in.
I allow the sweet melody to wash over me,
to weave a braid right through my yearning heart.
But even then, the faithful company of music
only arrives at the door of your absence,
waiting for you to come in.
AT THE LIBRARY
We choose the seat closest to the window,
away from everyone and everything else.
When we catch our breath from running inside,
we examine the droplets on our arms, our clothes,
and the books we carried in the drizzle. In relief,
and with our eyes, we admit the rain did no damage.
Outside, cars move slowly down the road, and I shift
my attention to the trees on the hill, all that green—
a thing of boastful beauty. I could lose myself in it.
On the sidewalk, an old woman brings down her umbrella
and stands still. In the rain. At first, I think she is tired
from holding up the red canopy of shade above her head,
but she pats down her hair and keeps walking. The hem
of her dress floats around her knees like leaves in a breeze.
The umbrella remains tightly clasped by her side.
I imagine the water sliding down her scalp,
traveling in a line down her neck and back,
forming a puddle in her shoes. I do not know
what to make of it. I turn to share the moment with you,
only to find you watching me, a knowing tease in the
smile that is starting to form on your shy face.
You saw it all—the old woman, my quiet contemplations
of all that is ordinary. That’s the way it’s been with us—
I give to the world my questions, this childlike wonder,
and you, awed by my devotion, stretch your hand
to receive it like an offering.
Author’s Note: I did not set out to write about attention in these poems, but I am thankful that it is what I arrived at when I sought to write about love. The art of turning my eyes on someone, of stopping in the middle of whatever it is I am doing and offering my eyes, my ears, my mind to another. The long sacrifices, our hands that reach to help, the tone of our voices when bitterness and hurt edge closer and closer. Day after day, we work towards care, gentleness, and love. We train ourselves to see each other, to remove any walls that may stand in the way. To be captivated, even in the mundane. How, without words, I am saying, “What matters to you matters to me,” and “I am here.” To become a keen observer, to be intentional, and to delight in knowing someone because it is precisely how you serve them well. Celebrating one year of marriage feels rather surreal. It does not exactly feel like twelve months have passed since we made this commitment, and yet, it has certainly been one busy and full season of transitions, new beginnings, and growth. I was afraid of what marriage would look like, the kind of adjustments it would require of me, how it would stretch and change me. It has been challenging in how it has de-centered me, compelled me to put Daniel’s needs before my own, and awakened a sensitivity to the weight of my words and the decisions I make. Every day is an exercise in patience, forgiveness, selflessness, and service. My favorite part of this is the gift of companionship, of steady presence. Daniel’s personhood. Daniel’s voice. Daniel’s passion. Daniel’s growth. I want for him all the marvelous and excellent things I want for myself, and then some. To be eternally one with him. His burdens, mine. His joy, mine. To think that when I see him, know that he’s close, and place my hand in his, I am at once at ease, no matter what is happening in the world. I have found the one with whom I want to do and face all things with. My heart is glad.
