I love you, Harry. And of course I would marry you again, but maybe we should have waited. We could have waited until people did not ask if we meant it, if we thought it through. We could have waited until we had the courage to get what we wanted - or the money to feel like we could have an opinion. I love you, Harry. But maybe we should have waited until thirty, that seems to be when people say it is okay.
I wonder how much of this is personal anxiety, my constant fear of commitment that I combat with non monogamy. I know some of it, though, is the whispers of our friends who seem to smirk at the idea that five years was long enough, or twenty four was old enough. I wonder how you’re feeling, you always seem so sure. It’s not that I wonder about you, but that I wonder about age and if it matters.
I love you, Harry. And I’m excited that we can be married for most of our lives. What does that mean, though, when we can already love each other for most of our lives whether the government is involved or not.
I love you, Harry. But now I am thinking that we could have made a statement, a political social commentary on the institution of marriage by refusing to succumb. I love you, Harry. And I’m wondering what, if any, amount of rebellion is on our shoulders. Are we supposed to decline the expected to make a point? Who will do it if we don’t? But the truth is that I love you, Harry. And I want to be the one to decide when to pull the plug in the hospital because I know you better than anyone.
I wonder why I bothered to want to get married if I knew that I would never stop wanting to have sex with strangers. It’s not just me. There are other relationships, other people, other marriages that opt for a sense of openness, a shirk at the concept that you should have one dick or one cunt forever. I love you, Harry. Because you, too, are one of those people.
I love you, Harry. And now I’m thinking that we could have waited until I knew if I was done going back and back and back to school. But then there is the question of insurance in a country that doesn’t care if you live unless you’ve decided to marry someone who can help you. I love you, Harry. And I’m wondering if it’s insurance fraud to marry even if you don’t believe in the institution of marriage. But you are a bartender and someone needs to bring home the health care.
I love you, Harry. And I wonder if we would have called it off by now if your parents were not religious or if they hadn’t put so much money in. We’ve talked about it before how our wedding is not the one we are having but that it is okay because we are the spouses we wanted.
I love you, Harry. But we’re not even sure if we want kids anymore. Wasn’t that the first reason we gave? If we want kids we might as well make it easier and get married. But now we never seem to agree, when I want kids you don’t, when you want kids I don’t. I think about the disappointment it would be, to our families, your parents.
I love you, Harry. But maybe we’re doing ourselves a favor. If we don’t have kids then we don’t have to disappoint your parents even more with the fact that they won’t take your last name, or mine. Rather we want to combine combine combine. I love you, Harry. But I’m nervous that once we told your parents we wouldn’t baptize our children they will look for a daughter in law elsewhere. I am nervous they would scoop you up and take you out out out of my life. I love you, Harry. But I’ve always had control issues and you can’t control a child, not in the way that I want to control control. A child is a person and not an extension of me, they are an individual and individuals scare me.
I love you, Harry. But I think I’ve answered my question. Maybe I answered yours as well. Either way, however we think, I will see you at the wedding in July.
Victoria holds an MA in English from the University of Maine. She is the author of a collection of short stories My Haunted Home (FC2) and chapbook Death and Darlings (Bottlecap Press). Overall, she hopes to discomfort, humor and charm.