Golden

Golden

His faults rise to the surface
     like yellow clumps in buttermilk
          sour growing sweet with the familiarity
               of repetition

Fifty years and he still can’t hear my hint
     how the trash can smells like fish
     why I talk for hours on the phone with grandkids I haven’t seen in months
     that the day has been long and dinner is not started

He’s never taken me to Europe
     or bought a single frivolous gift

He doesn’t understand
     that if he won’t turn his dirty socks right side out, I will have to

I’m sure my own faults are no less cloying
     when I turn the T.V. low
     how I pretend I don’t hear him talk about going camping
     the way I slide to the edge of the bed when his cold foot touches my leg

We were too
     young
  naive
     poor
       stubborn

I sang his favorite song in the moonlight
He planted roses beneath my window
     We might have lost or gained everything

We raise our glasses and drink
     to the bittersweet
          perserverance
               of love