Mr. Husband in Prose.

It is New Year’s Eve in The Villages, Florida. So far, we’ve survived my family Christmas and are about to survive an evening out with my two brothers, my sister-in-law, and our cousin Derek from Detroit. Big family fun. I haven’t seen Derek in four years. Mr. Husband met Derek last year during his Detroit vacation when he went to visit Mr. Older Brother. You guessed it, Mr. Husband played video games with Mr. Cousin. They know each other. They know the others’ gaming habits. They know how to massacre each other Mortal Kombat style. Is there anything else to know?

Mr. Husband and I have survived seven people living in a retirement village in a house that is built for retirement and not for entertaining. There are about 1700 very small square feet for us to move about on each others’ nerves. There is a very small shower for Mr. Husband to duck beneath and sprinkle his giant body. There are golf carts in which we can skirt away from family for a glass of wine someplace else. There is the forever blinding Florida sun and my parents walking on eggshells around their daughter who could erupt at any moment and often does. Be careful you don’t set her off. She is highly flammable and he simmers under the surface. We are barely surviving. Mr. Husband better than me, for he escapes daily and nightly into Left 4 Dead and Fable 2 while I suffer with my Hardy. Mr. Husband and Mr. Twin Brother are living it up in the magic world. I sit in the real world reading and trying to block out my father’s oxygen machine that runs at night to fill his blood with O2.

In order to minimize the damage, Mr. Husband and I stole away to the wine bar
yesterday afternoon for a leisurely glass of wine and some poetry. Our poetry. The fun stuff. I write a line, he writes a line, I write a line, he writes a line … we go on. We write and amuse ourselves. It is free entertainment. It is my escape that I get while my Mr. Husband pulls me lovingly by the hand and shakes away my not being quite as comfortable as I’d like to be at this time of the year.

From Urban Flats Wine Bar, December 30th, 2008

A glass of Merlot in the afternoon
Village wine in the village sun,
September vine come home to rest
We drink! We drink!
They laugh! They laugh!
Schedules damned to a normal life,
And
Then, the tablecloth washed, folded, and put away
What kind of wine are we? Red? White?
The glass remains empty as decision fails
We sit drinking, loving, looking at the liquid tannins galore
Life is here and now and will be forever there and here and more

**************

That’s what we make when we sit and write together. Not so bad. Not so good, either. I can't figure out how to format the poem right and the capitalization is off and unruly. The grammar is hideous. We are making people cry with our attempt at a written craft. But it is the fact that the two of us can sit and be merry with very little and calm each other to bring a smile to each others’ faces. Mr. Husband has done many different things this trip to make me smile. He cares for me and even golfs with me. Yes, the man who swore never to golf again amused Mr. Twin Brother and I with his golf finesse. He did well. He got air. Mr. Husband isn’t all video games and poetry.
He’s got so much more in his pocket. I think 2009 is going to see a whole lot fall out of his pocket. Spill all over me. I don’t need a napkin.