"Our Year" by Catherine A.G. Bayly

Shortly following the turn of the millennium,
            he convinced me this was “our year.” 

So footloose and morally-indulgent,
I scoured thrift store shelves—
             burgundy and gold.  I was so ironic then.

We picked apples and drank fall cider.
Cauldrons of fire-hot billion bean chili.
            He wore a burgundy hat—
            Massive gold pompom.

Nearly a decade later—
And Sundays still carried the scent of excitement.
Week after week, as it ended painfully
on the other side of the wire,
arms thrown to the heavens, he exclaimed—

            Done with this.
            Can’t take it anymore.
            Wasting my life away.

We don’t talk about it anymore.
I’m wearing blue today—
Him, khakis and plain white shirt. 

But he slips out the door around noon.
Comes back with a single shopping bag.
Beans.  Peppers.  Mushrooms. 
Silently brings them to a simmer on the stove.

As the light gets low,
Somehow he’s down by the couch.
Pretending to do other things.
Begins to pay attention.
Soon he’s yelling.
To my chagrin.
Terrifically crisp jersey.
How did this happen.
Fist pumps.
Leaps on the coffee table.
              My husband is a homer.

(A quick silly poem written today.  My how Fall has changed.)