Mountain Castaways: Eleven Years Married

When I stop to consider eleven years married and fourteen years together, it appears on the surface like a short amount of time.

Then you stop and consider my husband, John, and I are were the unpopular decision. Thirty-two years between us, we should never have happened as a couple. Now my family has come to know and love John just as I’ve made peace that members of his DNA will never accept this union. I came to that acceptance not long after Corrie was ill as a baby, and the final acceptance when Corrie died. I had to accept if these individuals would hold on to grudges when their father had lost a child they never would accept as a sister, even in death, there was nothing ever to be done.

But I accepted it because, in my eyes, John has been a wonderful father to our children. He was and is still a wonderful husband to me. In eleven years of marriage that some thought was a fleeting glance and an unpopular decision,

… we accepted and embraced that we would raise a child with autism, came back from near poverty, started renovating a house, dealt with a tornado, found each other after the death of our beloved child, I miscarried, he stayed with me night after night as I battled–and still battle–traumatic nightmares, and most recently, I stayed by his side as he battled and defeated colon cancer.

Months ago, I started writing this poem for our anniversary; for John.  It is composed of two poems; one of which I never finished, and the other that I wrote early in our relationship when I was still pregnant with Charles. The newer lines I wrote most recently in October.  

Last year, as we were set to celebrate ten years of marriage, he was diagnosed with colon cancer.  Today, we celebrate his health and our eleven year anniversary for which I wrote the poem below.

Mountain Castaways

When I think of the mountain pass,
I think of all we'd hoped would last.
Still you stay and hold my hand–
after the weeks spent on summer seas, 
as we were tossed about as castaways 
from people and places with a ban.
We chose to take the mountain pass
after the leaves left trees unabashed.

I  recall those November days after the apple orchard closed.
Some romances stuck on a frozen curve never could disclose
what went wrong after the bluegrass bands packed
away their mandolins, and those, who clogged, took off their shoes. 
The roads were abandoned under the last of gold
over azure blue before winter lacked
the stars as the night awoke.

Despite your age and my youth,
I could not help but fall for you.
I fell for you when they raised
the walls of Troy. There were soldiers bragging of betting bits from foreign lands, 
and we should not have craved
for nights when we see the stars
and call each other ours.

All these things will pass away:
our words, deeds, and the days.
Yet, I fell for you at the dawn of Troy.
 I declared my love on the night the 
Trojans let in the wooden horse.
You said, "Something is not right,"
as the Greeks sought to destroy.
You said, "I know a way out," 
as Trojans slept and weren't about. 

Through the streets, we did hurry
as the Greeks released their fury
into a hovel that looked more like a cave. 
We entered and ventured deeper.
We smelled smoke and heard the screams. Rocks fell from the walls. 
There wasn't time to act so brave.
I wanted to go back, and you took my hand.
I learned there was no such thing as a promised land.

Beyond this world and the mountain pass, 
other galaxies were built to last.
Life existed far away beyond the dreams 
of Trojan soldiers, kings, and queens.
In the galaxies named and unnamed by 
scientists and those from other
worlds with greater Science, 
love came from deep within.  
Though I will become but scattered ash,
you were all the glory of the worlds to me.

We chose to take the mountain pass
when all said we wouldn't last.
I ask: "Where do you go 
when 
fervors are high and spirits low?"
To the mountains and the sky, 
only there did my spirit climb.
You look my hand, and I was sold
like a boy, who long ago

dealed the devil with his soul,
so his apple trees would grow
by enriching earth off  rocky paths.
The boy dug in dirt meant to last.
When the boy's life was said to end,
the devil strutted to the Earth, and climbed high into the 
peaks past where hikers see light
fade below a stretch of blue.
There was nothing left. Nothing new.

The boy climbed the mountain pass
where winter white and fog had cast
out light above the evergreens
to watch rivers become nothing more than reflecting lights.
high in the mountains, he found his mercy
so long as he remained in the mountains unseen.
Of all the things came to pass,
his mercy did forever last.

Farmers voices echoed through the years 
of things that came and disappeared:
rain-filled autumns ruining good seed,
love lost and gone, and why mountains
exist at all.  And I could’ve left the mountain pass, 
and forgot all I hoped would last. 

Though I will become but scattered ash,
you were all the glory of the worlds to me.

By R.A. Bridges