coin

i knew before
we got married.

that's the hardest part
to admit:
not that it ended,
but that i saw it coming
from the beginning.

i tried.

that's what i need people
to understand.

i made us go to therapy.
i sat across from a stranger
and asked the question
most people are too afraid
to even think:

should we really
get married?

she said she saw
no reason
we shouldn't.

so we did.

that was twenty years ago.

seven therapists.
twenty years.

i kept trying
to fix something
i suspected
couldn't be fixed,

because that's what you do
when you love someone
and you're afraid
of what the alternative means.

now she's gone.
and with her,
the plan.

we deferred
retirement savings
because we believed
her inheritance
would carry us
into old age.

at the time,
it made sense.
it was a reasonable bet
between two people
building a life together.

i'm 56 now.
the bet is off.

i've been watching
my country slide toward
something dark
for two decades.

i warned people.
most of them
closed their ears.

now that it is undeniable,
those same people
are closing their doors,

because being right
is apparently more
unforgivable
than being wrong.

i went looking
for support
once.

i found out
there is no
real support.

just prison.

my mother is dying.

i'm in her house
right now,
watching her go,

which is its own kind
of profound
and terrible gift.

i'm tired.

not the kind of tired
that sleep fixes.

i should
flip a coin.