Still Life Under Glass

We stand in front of the cameras dressed in red, white, and blue. We clutch pocketbooks and pearls, pull the silk scarves woven loose through our arms around bare shoulders. We smile into the lens with an unwavering tenacity we hope convinces the rest of the world—and ourselves—that we were placed upon the Earth for this exact purpose. We sing hymns and pray for the safe return of our astronaut husbands and our sanity. We place hands across hearts and swear we are proud, happy, and thrilled, even though the veneer wears thin from overuse. We nod yes, even when we mean no. We try not to think about what ifs and worst case scenarios. We want to believe in happy endings. We try not to dwell on what we cannot control. We instead hug our children and corral monsters from dark corners. We sew buttons and fix our hair and the flywheel on the lawnmower. We bandage knees, clean scrapes, the dinner dishes piled high in the sink. We sweep the floor and wash the windows in the middle of the night when the curtains can be opened once again. We solve X for why. We attend picnics and birthday parties, bridge games where tea and sympathy are served in equal measure. We smoke cigarettes and gossip about politics and infidelities to pass the time. We commiserate, laugh, cry, put a new pot on to boil. We refrain from asking questions like: How will we survive if everything goes BOOM? We know when silence is the only cure. We help our sons and daughters cut stars out of construction paper to make a chain to count down the days until their father comes home. We study our reflections in the bathroom mirror. We are tired. We are husks blowing in the breeze—dry, empty. We brush our teeth, our hair one stroke at a time. We spritz perfume on our wrists, even though we are alone. We lie on chaises in the backyard at two in the morning because it’s the only time we can breathe deep. We tilt our heads toward the moon shining above and imagine our husbands floating like weightless birds in the night sky, while gravity keeps us grounded. We know that every little thing we’ve done will be written down, preserved. We know there will be a time of reckoning, looking back. We close our eyes and sigh. We remind ourselves to take one day at a time because that is all we are given.