I am not usually a superstitious person, and I have never been very convinced by numerology. On this thirteenth day of April, however, I am inspired by another 13, probably the most important of my life. Last August my husband and I celebrated 13 years of marriage.
It wasn’t our easiest year, but it was very important, and I learned a lot about love. So, today’s poem is my effort to share (and celebrate) those lessons.
It’s supposed to be unlucky.
the thirteenth floor,
the thirteenth day,
the thirteenth year.
And in marriage, at least, this makes
Thirteen years after the wedding, the honeymoon is nearly
Life is full of
responsibilities and restlessness,
disagreements and distractions,
frustrations and foibles
that aren’t so endearing anymore,
Thirteen years worth of everything that pulls two souls apart.
But… all those reasons
are what made our thirteenth year
Not because we avoided all these things,
the pains and petty grievances.
Not because we proved our love exempt
from burns in the crucible of marriage.
But rather, because we didn’t.
It is so easy to become complacent,
to take for granted the presence
of a life-mate,
to forget to practice daily gratitude in acts of care.
Until things start to rub,
to scrape raw the thin veneer of passive toleration.
Until minor irritations begin to spread,
like a rash,
spreading across the skin,
the surface of daily interactions.
It is then that you realize the need for
The rash is not infected, not acute,
but if allowed to spread
it can compromise the entire body.
It requires gentle care
a soft caress,
a soothing balm on irritations,
the medicine of daily acts of love.
And in the simple things,
the ointment of paying attention,
of thinking once again
how can I put him first? her first?
you find the luck of being married
Marriage isn’t magic.
And it’s not really about luck.
here’s to hoping.
that the next thirteen years
will be just as “lucky”.
And the next thirteen.
And the next.
And the next.