Maybe

Today I cleaned
and had a glass of wine
and took a bath
and read a book
and talked to my husband about who would pick up the kids.

I have a luxurious life
because I have enough money
and food
and a roof over my head
and some time,
not enough time.

I have enough time to clean the house
and take a bath
and read a book
and drink a glass of wine,

but

I do not have enough time with my husband.

Or maybe I do.

It's hard to tell.

He is no longer doing very well in his art classes,
but maybe that is not indicative of his brain's status,
except that it probably is.

I do not have enough time to grasp what is happening,
because something else is always happening
and I have to attend to the newest thing that is happening.

I do not have enough time to write,
there is never enough time,
because there are no words for the loss I feel
for the boy I knew
who was left in Iraq
and replaced with a man
who will probably forget who I am before I am very old.

I laugh about it though.
I tell him it is a good thing he married someone he knew as a teenager,
I tell him he will remember me -
but he will not understand why I am so old.

Or maybe he will not forget.

Maybe when he has forgotten 1 + 1
(some days I wonder if he has,
math is hard - even the facts he knows by rote memorization),
he will still know who I am.

Maybe he will never forget me or our children,
just like he will never forget Iraq.

Maybe when he dies,
his soul will finally be at peace,
in Iraq,
with his friends who wouldn't come home.

Maybe he doesn't have a soul,
maybe he lost it or maybe he never did,
maybe none of us do,
so maybe when he dies,
he will go back to being part of the universe,
part of Iraq,
part of the enemy combatants,
part of the energy and life force and dust we are all made of.

Maybe he should have married someone who knew about souls.

Maybe a wife like that,
a wife who prays,
a wife who knows about souls,
a wife who is saved,
could save him.

I know better.
I know we cannot save anyone.
We can only save ourselves
and offer ourselves as a crutch to others who are trying to save themselves.
We can hold cups of water on the sidelines of the marathon,
but we cannot run the marathon for anyone else,
we can only cheer.

Or maybe not.
Maybe I am just the wrong kind of wife,
the kind who cannot save,
the kind who can only watch helplessly
as the marathoner leaves the path to run with his demons.

Maybe there is a wife who could follow and beat the demons back.
But I think they would probably eat her.