Sunday, March 28, 2010

lucky number 7

Your Laughter by Pablo Neruda
Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.

Tomorrow is my seventh wedding anniversary, and tonight while we were getting the kids ready for bed, Steve jokingly asked me what happened to us.  We went from spending our days and nights in relative ease – hanging out, dining out, enjoying good conversation and lazy Sunday afternoons.  Seven years ago tonight I was stumbling dancing to “White Wedding” on the bar at the Peanut after our rehearsal dinner.  Tonight, we were talking to Lucy about pooping. I think it’s safe to say that our life has changed.
The night I met my husband, I was dragged out by my then roommates, Julie and Kathy.  They wanted to watch a Chiefs football game and I had just flown home from New York where I had been with family after the death of my grandfather.  I didn’t want to go out – didn’t really even want to leave the house, but the girls picked out the clothes I would wear and told me to get my ass in the shower.  The bar where Steve was bartending that night was a last resort for us – after we found no place to sit at our normal hang out, I wanted to go home and they wanted to try one more place.  I’m so glad they did.  Later that night, after I stuck green beans in my nose and stole a bunch of firewood (please do not ask me to explain this), I gave my phone number to the boy who would become my husband.  After our first date, I came home, shut the door, and announced that I would marry him someday.
I’m not going to pretend that our life is all wine and roses.  It’s WAY more wine than it is roses, but I made a good choice and I married a good man.  I hope that we are teaching our girls that love knows no limits, speaks no particular language, and accepts strange obsessions with old British sci-fi shows and comic books.  Love is being able to talk about poops – it’s about laughter.


  1. I hope Steve knows how lucky he is. :) Sweet post.

  2. You big sap. This is the sweetest thing I've read in a long long time.