January

for Laurie Strickland

JANUARY. Andy played the piano. He didn't play it well. In fact, he couldn't even read music. And he most certainly didn't know where Middle C was. But he could play a few songs here and there. And I suppose that reminded me of my grandfather, who only played the black keys. And when we'd moved in to the house together, there was that very All in the Family moment. I was the Edith to his Archie and we sat there singing and barely playing and mostly laughing. And piled around us were the many, many boxes neither one of us wanted to open.

There were the books. Hundreds, at least. So many doubles - his worn-out copy of Swann's Way and mine still with a price tag. His barely-opened David Foster Wallace and mine, dog-eared and beat up from my thirty times through. We'd argued about Infinite Jest one evening. The drinks had kept coming and we'd started raising our voices. He thought Wallace had attention-deficit disorder. I tried to explain his stream of consciousness, but Andy's cheeks were red and he only heard every other word. I didn't want to hear about Proust's red velvet cake. That's what Andy called it. Sumptuous and rich. I called it high-falutin' bullcrap. But eventually we'd stumbled out of the restaurant, me laughing at his taste in literature and him at my stubbornness.

There was a lot of that in those days. We were from the school of Opposites Attract, Andy and I. He told me that his mother always said "Love is about sacrifice."And we'd convinced ourselves that was gospel.

The day after our honeymoon, I came home from returning an overdue documentary we'd rented. I was jet-lagged but happy. Andy was sitting on the living room couch naked with a bowl of ice cream. Most people would be upset by his nudity but I was more concerned with the very red raspberry sorbet he was eating on my very white couch. "Marriage is about giving and taking", my mother said. After the the first spill, we flipped the cushion. The second time? A new red couch because raspberry was his favorite flavor. Give and take.

But eventually I got tired of seeing him there, night after night, wiping a new stain up before I'd catch him. And when I found his red raspberry fingertips all over my copy of Infinite Jest, I'd lost it. Instead of getting lost in this moment - his triumph - being happy that he'd finally gotten past Wallace's insecurities and intricacies, I was furious that he'd ruined my already tired copy.

So, I threw a pair of jeans at him. Then a shirt. And socks. And shoes. And bags. And boxes. (Beat.) And my ring.

(Beat.)

I'd been warned by mother that my having a name like January would be a hard sell. But that despite the cold, despite the bite, despite the colored air you breathe, despite the death... that it was her favorite month of the year. January. Everything white. Like you have an eraser. A constant start-over.

(Beat.)

While Andy packed, I sat at the piano played the only thing I knew -- the first three measures of Fur Elise. Over and over and over again. (Singing it,) Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-dum..... Until I heard the door close and let my blinders down and looked around.

(Beat.)

Give and take.