Irene and Joy and Grandma

This is the one i am thinking of reading in its most recent incarnation, thoughts>

A Boston marriage my grandmother called it

Two women, independent of the support of a man

living together in a romantic friendship.

Irene, and her companion Joy

raising a son named Rodger together

no one asked who was his mother

It didn’t matter

we made necklaces together

in a loft bed

he was somewhere in his thirties, his mind still somewhere in early childhood

I watched the women

drink coffee

and touch hands

while we made necklaces

It did not occur to me to question the status of these two women

of my grandmothers friendship with them

of the “situation”

in which they lived.

When my grandmother died

a gnarled image of the woman she used to be

in slacks and turquoise jewlery

knuckles like tree knots

and skin hanging off of her like paper streamers

the aftermath of a party long since over

My mother told me that when my grandmother was young

tall and fit

the only woman on the assembly line

in full makeup

and heels

standing for hours at a time fitting pieces into pieces

in her high shoes and lady face

There was a theory goin around the family that Grandma, or Betty, or Mom,

wanted to be with, or was, one of “THOSE” women

like Irene

and Joy

living in their shared house

just down the road from my grandmother

where they retired

together

after 30 years as teachers

friends with my grandmother for  most of that time

they build their house on a hill just down the road

so they could always

drink coffee in the sunshine

and touch hands

I never considered this Boston Marriage

while making necklaces with gentle Rodger in the loft bed

staring through colored beads I watched them laugh

and I thought,

how nice.

I hope when I grow up,

I have love like this

Like Irene and Joy

and Rodger with his beads

Grandma walked me home and held my hand tight

my necklaces twisted around my wrist in wait of being handed out to Shelly

my 9 year old companion

and third grade life mate

She glowed in the sunlight

and promised we would be back tomorrow

As a woman now

my own lady face constructed

and still a love of plastic, beaded jewlery

I sit in a kitchen and hold the hand of a woman who is my companion

at least for that morning

and I think about the delicious normalcy

of drinking coffee

and touching hands

while my daughter makes necklaces in her loft bed

And I wonder if seeing us here in the kitchen

gives her peace and a desire for love

like it did for me

with grandma

I told my daughter I was gay when she was 5.

Her father was gone and I was not interested in sneaking kisses after bed time or pronoun changing for her “benefit”

I introduced her to my girlfriend and after dinner that night, as I walked her to the door, I kissed her full on the lips as my daughter watched from the kitchen

I did not feel sorry

but I did question my decision

When she asked me

if she was gay now too

No one ever told me that Companions

were also lovers

that Irene and Joy must have made love in the moon light in their shared bed

with Rodger asleep next door

secure in that both mothers would be there to make bacon in the morning

In telling my daughter that I was gay

that something was different for me

than for the mothers of her friends

did I remove that sunlight touch and plastic bead viewpoint from her perspective?

Does she now have too much information?

Did Grandma love these women

love them like they loved each other

shared vacations excuses to be alone

to create memories

and touch hands

away from prying eyes

of adults with too much information

Is that why Rodger and I were safe

with our beads

and our loft bed

quiet witnesses to soft touches

drinking coffee

love that needed no additional information

Maybe sometimes nothing

is better than something

so everything

can quietly exist

on its own terms