Married in the winter: it is the right time and place. Only the fall would have been as appropriate, right at the beginning, crowned and throned and curled up right.

But the dead centre of winter is fine too, right at the end of jaunty January with his bindlestiff and yapping dog sauntering merrily towards the grand crowned cliff where he will come off all eagle-wise and shudder-jump split-winged and be-ringed into air.

And here is me. Landed in a skiff off of the old country, swung through alleys of books and masks and towers that lean and people to hurried to their various places and travelling, travelling, travelling to bother with a knife or a stolen purse, me, delivered, hand in hand and side by side:

A bride.

A newlywed.

And come back from the old to you and new to me to the new-old-thing, still again, coming round, here am I, renaming home a home, curled up on a couch with a boy and a cat and calling the boy Husband,

Because he is, and he is mine.

And yeah, yeah, yeah...

that happened.

<<agé chose>>

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