Anniversary

Over half a century
I’ve kept a journal
to aid my hagiographer
tell the story of a hubristic saint.

The composition books,
part of late-life triage,
circle me on the den floor,
testament to opaque tales
of failed marriages.

These pages swell with searching, justification,
and grief about wives
and therapists who tried
to shoe-horn me toward less pain
on a foggy and embarrassing trek.

I may not have reconnected
with these depressing dénouements
now decades old, were it not for
the ink and dates on aging paper
that still clutch at the heart.

Mind dims what papyrus keeps fresh,
like finding logs of a long-sunken ship.

With weak radar in the spousal realm,
I needed special support beyond shrinks,
self-help and a parade of gurus.

Call it luck or miracle, but a former wife,
like the Oracle at Delphi, pronounced:
“Here, take this one.”

Her insight was beyond my cunning,
as I taste this newer friendship,
a love less dramatic than peaceful
with humor and surface spats
between two who have learned
to write fresh pages together.