You Married a Writer and I'm Sorry

You married a writer, and I'm I sorry.

I crawl inside of myself and spin out a fine web of words that--I think--make you wonder where they were, as I was passionately arguing with you instead.

I feel the way that my turquoise ring slips on my finger, as I write this.

I hear the children yelling--our daughter is, literally, shouting a song into my ear as I drip these words through my turquoise-covered fingers.

I don't miss a word of what you say, but I often feel like you miss mine, until they are printed and in front of you, and even then. I know this is partly my fault because, as you tell me often, I ironically give you the "final copy" rather than the "rough draft."

You married a writer, and I'm sorry.

I hole up in our bedroom, in bed; tippy-typing away as frequently as I can--which is not often enough lately, with our growing family.

I write, pulled over in the car; quickly on a tiny notebook I carry nearly everywhere.

I write on Saturday mornings or in the evening, while you help with dinner and pour me a second glass of wine.

When writing, I ignore your requests to do normal "mother" things, like change a diaper. I tell you that I'm in here, and I tap the side of my head with my turquoise-laden finger.

You married a writer, and I'm sorry.

Time spent writing is time away from you; from our children; from our love---but I can't help it. I write because I can't not write.

You married a writer, and I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that I'm not sorry.

Because you love me, as I am.

You married a writer and 21 years ago, as children ourselves, you stole my heart.

I think I've stolen yours a few times too--and I'm nearly positive that it's this part of me that is always--slightly--somewhere else, and tip-toeing in vast, flowered fields of my own creation, that have granted your love for me.

I married someone who loves a writer--thank God.