‘Not Marriage Material’ – Submission 6: ‘Maria’ by Syd Blackwell

Not Marriage Material is an upcoming anthology of non fiction and poetry – submissions are currently open. More information can be found here.

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MARIA

Sitting at the Greyhound station
last night
waiting as always for a winter late bus
I fell into an old habit of counting cars on the passing train
…3,4…9…13…16…20…
20 days it’s been
since you left
not that I was counting or anything
just happened to notice
no point in counting if you’re never coming back
and you can’t come back if you’re dead
Not that I knew you were dead
until you were gone
and now that you are gone
I look at all the signs that you were dying
and wonder how I didn’t know

Maria
a gift from Portugal
where she’d never been
rose out of the dust that was
all that was left
of Mary Verge
when she
first freshened
Wintergreen

Never call me Mary again
she said
when I first held her in my arms
in the laundry room
I am Maria
she said
and I never said
Mary again

But I fell in love with Maria
and took her to hear music in Salmon Arm
and music at The Roxy
and picked her up from class
nearly every day
and made her lunch
and one sun splashed winter day
took her up the mountain
to the old ski jump
and we ate Japanese food
with real chopsticks
and lots of wasabi
and drank green tea
from little ceramic cups
and made hot love
everywhere
and often

At first
I was afraid
Maria could not love me
as I loved her
for I was too old
but Maria made me young
and made me not be afraid
to be old

Love waxed
throughout the wan winter
and Maria blossomed
with a being
an essence
a drive
a voice

Still
all was not well
and Maria
knew that she could not just be Maria
but needed to also be
Mother Mary
for her children
from her previous life
and sometimes
Maria and Mary coexisted
and sometimes Mary
out of necessity
was dominant
although Maria was not very comfortable with Mary
who did not share her dreams

One day Mary moved out
and I thought
maybe Maria had died
and maybe she did for a little while
but Maria
romantic Maria
was resuscitated
by a love poem

Maria
wrote stories
and poems of her own
and listened to tapes
of love songs
made by her lover
and walked and talked
and drank wine
and smoked dope
and ate wonderful exotic food
and dreamt of lands
where lovers walked barefoot
through warm sands

And her lover dreamed
he could make a family of it
and make a home for
Maria
and her children
whoever their father might be
not that he wanted to be
their father
mostly he just wanted to be
their mother’s lover

And for a while
that seemed to work

But sometime
in the season that
begins with cold rains
and ends with new snows
Maria began to die

It’s hard to say
what roles were played
by family crises
difficult courses
lingering fatigue
and the endless adjustment problems
of the children

It is easy to conceal
the things that are real
behind mantles
of our own persuasion

The mood swings
the Maria/Mary swings
there were things
that could be seen

Maria
had Splash the cat
and wanted a dog
and we got Simon the dog
and Mary wasn’t asked
what she thought

Maria
sweet sexual Maria
did not stop
initiating physical contacts
nor did she fake orgasms
but somewhere
along there
I think Mary might have

Maria
did not stop sharing my bed
because I snored
for I always snored

Maria
did not choose
virginmary
for her email address
but I think Mary Verge did

Maria
died a little each day
and I can’t say
I saw it happen
tho’
in perfect retrospective vision
I should have

When Simon and I
were sent away
to visit my parents
before Christmas Day came
and I stole that
last dispassionate kiss
at 6am
I never knew
Maria would be gone
before I returned

Adieu Maria adieu
from dust were ye made
and dust ye shall be

December 18, 2000

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Author Bio: Syd Blackwell

I was born in a small mountain town in southeastern British Columbia, Canada. It was a stable environment infused with history and surrounded by nature which formed my thoughts and feelings as I grew. I was a teacher and a college administrator for more than two decades before I became an innkeeper. This poem happened during my innkeeper days. Three years later, I married again. Now, my wife and I live in retirement in South America where I am a writer and an artist.