Gone, not forgotten

Marriage doesn't really make much of a story.

Maybe the beginning,

with the drama 

of which relative is most likely to get drunk and create a scene

at the wedding

or whether the faux neo-Gothic church 

or barefoot on a beach is the better setting;

maybe the end,

with the drama and the tears 

over which betrayal was the worst;

but the middle is just the daily, unending grind of life -

working, 

paying bills,

doing laundry,

watching the sun rise and set,

bumping up against the sharp edges and dull plains 

of someone a whole gender different than you.

Sharing the mundane middle 

is still what I miss the most.

And even now, 

decades after my marriage ceased to exist,

I have moments of seeing it on the horizon as it recedes further -

as if cruising along in fog,
across a vast expanse of sea;

and I
squinting,
watch as it fades completely
into the realm of 

all that used to be and is no longer.

Few people remember who I was then;
which is not surprising
since I barely remember myself.

First you have one sort of life

and then you have another.