On Marriage

109 On Marriage Katrina Vandenberg I like watching my husband on a ladder sealing the bungalow windows in plastic for winter. The task, though mundane, requires all his attention— straight tracks of tape along the frames, the unzip of their paper covers so that both sides are sticky. I like his ease. I have been standing here inside this window, dust cloth in hand, for the longest time, and still he has not noticed me admiring the way he holds his body three rungs from the ground—leaning his weight on a stiffened right leg, left moccasin cocked on the next step up. Slim hips pulled in. I like the pencil behind his ear, the jackknife he unfolds to shear the plastic sheet to size. How he measures it, almost invisible, fluttering against the glass, and his wedding band flashes gold against the gray weather of Saint Paul, bright like the church bells calling this fall morning. And do you know what he will do when at last he sees me standing here? Mock-start, then wink, go back to work. You see, we have lived in this house as man and wife a few winters now, and finally I begin to learn its rhythms. I know, for instance, that right now we could barely hear each other if one of us decided to ask a question. ...