I have been married for a week, and Texas is home now.
The apartment in which we live– my husband (husband! really?) and I live is only slightly less of a disaster now than it was this morning when we first woke up and wandered out from the chaos of our bedroom to the chaos of our living room.
The expectant dining room swells with boxes and books, a cake caddy from Caroline, dishes, a single shoe that belongs to the pair that I split, accidentally, last time I was here, before this was home. It's a good thing that we don't have a table or chairs yet.
We eat meals on the foam fold-out couch, crouched like an indoor picnic, teetering sandwiches and apples on new plates that glisten like hewn jewels. We didn't want a china pattern; these Target plates are majestic. Who needs a china pattern?
Half of my clothes are mixed with his clothes in the walk-in closet; the other half are slowly disgorging themselves from the suitcase that sits against the far wall of the living room. Next to me on the couch are swirling satin ribbons, purpley like velvet Emperor butterflies, from off Bed-Bath-and-Beyond boxes.
I promised myself that after I was married I would start a new blog, a new place to write, and I would really write there. No more hairline pauses that expand into three-month cracks between posts, like the old blog; no more waffling, whiffling, or whining. Give up and write!
So that is what I've done, and in between the chaos the words come dancing out, the same way the mid-afternoon walk in January-summer weather came, swinging hands with the new husband. The words emerge like his hands come out of the covers in the morning before waking hasn't quite reached my sleepiness and he pulls me close for a good-morning cuddle. The words hurry, straining to be born before the ticking clock calls a halt to the labor and reminds me that it's supper time.
Words wing between all the other things that I could be doing. The chaos has a rhythm to it and yes, yes, we dance.