Sorry to take a break from the story. My fourth grade son's teacher died this morning and I can't think of words for the next part of our love story. Possibly it could be just to speak of the tender way my husband took my son into his arms and said, "Sorry about your teacher." Or maybe it was the way his hands patted back my boys hair, and a bit of the tears that were shed as he held him in his arms; tears shed by both of my men, for losing a teacher at such a young age makes a boy grow up too fast. Then my husband picked him up, laid my little mans head on his shoulder and held him until he had cried himself out of tears. Tomorrow wont change todays event, but in time he will find his heart has gotten used to not being use to the pain, and pretty soon he will be back at school; playing with his friends, doing math, music, recess; and he won't sigh so big, and the tears wont come as often. But not tonight.
'Will you, um, marry me?' I haven't seen you in weeks! You don't look happy or excited about the prospect of our marriage! You're asking me to give up my - my freedom, my joie de vivre for an institution that fails as often as it succeeds? And why should I marry you anyway? I mean, why do you wanna marry me? Besides some bourgeois desire to fulfill an ideal that society embeds in us from an early age to promote a consumer capitalist agenda?