37 years, since she’d said I do, and folded herself up and put herself away along with her wedding dress and veil. 37 years of making beds, and doing dishes. Cooking oatmeal and darning socks.
And now, as she was about to hang out the laundry, she was mulling over Marvin's words. What he’d said at breakfast while raising his coffee cup to her in a mock toast.
“Emma, after all this time, you’re still as dependable as a Maytag washer!”
He’d said it after taking a swig of the Folgers she’d poured for him. Snorted in amusement at his own wit. She was so mad she’d wanted to spit in his mug.
Emma looked across the length of empty clothes line, and then at the basket piled high with wet clothes. The poles at either end of the line were already sagging, as though the mere thought of the weight of all that washing was too much to bear. She knew the feeling.
A dictionary full of words and that was the best he could do. It was the best he could do because he didn’t really know her. Not the way she’d hoped, 37 years ago, that he would want to know her.
A quickening breeze whispered through her hair. Tickled her legs and flipped up the hem of her dress. Took her by the heart and lead her into an ecstasy that dared her to remember-to remember when she was young.
Thirty-seven years is a long time to be married. Longer when the person you are married to doesn’t know you at all. Doesn’t know that memories of what might have been and longings for what could be, blow in on a wayward wind.
The wayward wind is a restless wind
A restless wind that yearns to wander
And she was born the next of kin
The next of kin to the wayward wind
This piece was inspired by one of my favorite Patsy Cline songs, and this week’s Trifecta prompt.
a : a state of being beyond reason and self-control
b archaic : swoon
: a state of overwhelming emotion; especially : rapturous delight
Photo credit here.