When someone tells me that Dave and I are the perfect couple, I take it lightly. We’ve both been in “perfect” couples before.

Today would have been the 19th anniversary of my first marriage. It was a far different life. I had jobs that consumed me and never gave anything back beyond monetary remuneration. I had leisure time to do whatever I desired, yet I had no music, not much joy.

There was love, but I never trusted it. I was wary of his scorn and disapproval, real and imagined. He had definite opinions on everything and was a judgmental sort of person. Generally, if he decided he didn’t like someone, he wrote them off and never gave second chances. I kept too many of my own thoughts to myself for fear of looking ridiculous in his eyes.

Eventually by silencing myself, I created a wall that kept us from being able to communicate honestly. Strangely, the smooth surface of our relationship gave the impression of perfection to friends and acquaintances and I seized on that as proof it was all okay.

When things started to fall apart, he very much regretted the way he was and truly desired to change. Even now, a critical little corner of my mind thinks I should have been able to make it work, but I didn’t. By that time, I had no hope and left the relationship. He is remarried now and I wish him great happiness. We are none of us simply one thing or the other; he also has many good qualities. But ultimately, I helped create and stayed a long time in an unnourishing relationship in large part because we were supposed to be the perfect couple.

Yes, it’s raining. It’s been raining for a while. It will be raining for a while longer, possibly all week.

Up until it became such a big topic of conversation, I was enjoying the cool, gray weather. It’s good excuse to curl up in my armchair and read. I like the drumming sound it makes on our standing-seam roof. I’m not sure what’s so great about incessant sunshine anyway, but I’m in the minority here. Even Dave, whose inherently sunny nature lets him see the good side of everything, is getting impatient with it.

I’ve been up an hour or so this lovely spring morning, reading from a book of poems.

My heart is full this week. We’ve been singing with the Episcopalians at St. James all Holy Week. Today is the last of it — Easter Sunday. I have many thoughts on the experience, but can’t quite organize them.