Marcus Who Married Down and Says So Constantly

Lyrics

It’s December again. The pine needles are dropping on the mantel. Right next to the polished silver frame. And you are at the dining room table, Marcus. Conducting the year. The little furrow in your brow. The one you get when you’re choosing a word. Like you’re a poet, or a king. Editing us down to a single, elegant page. Our victories, all yours. My small stumbles, a charming anecdote. A footnote in the story of your excellent life. And I know the line is coming. It always does, around paragraph three. After you’ve mentioned your promotion. "And my dear wife... she really does try." She tries with the garden. She tries with her book club. A for effort. A for the trying. The kindest, sharpest little knife. Polished just for me. I remember the dinner party in July. The one with the Carsons. You told them about the souffle I burned. Told it with a laugh in your voice. Your hand on my back. "She's a character," you said. "But she really does try." And Helen Carson looked at her wine glass. And I just kept smiling. The smile I practiced. Oh, I know that line is coming. I can feel it being written. Paragraph three. "And my dear wife... she really does try." She tries with the children. She tries with her painting. A for effort. A for the trying. The kindest, sharpest little knife. The one you save just for me. Tomorrow morning, you'll be gone. To the office, to your important life. And I'll go to the kitchen. I'll reach past the perfect white mugs you bought at Crate & Barrel. And I'll find my own. The one with the chip on the rim. And my hands will be warm. And the house will be quiet. You’re folding the paper now. A perfect three-part fold. You lick the envelope. Another year, sealed and sent. Another year of me, trying. My sweet, trying wife.