by Linda Perschonke
I just got out of prison. A prison of a different type.
The kind you go to on a strictly volunteer basis. You even pick where
and when. You have so much freedom that with time, the very freedom
you place on a pedestal, becomes your tombstone. Marriage.
And let’s not limit it to a legal definition or a religious ceremony but
let’s also expand the meaning to take on any quasi-committed relationship
between two people. So everything you ever coveted was somehow linked
to marriage. And why not? Our values are as much as a part
of ourselves as our grandparents and hemorrhoids. Genetic pride and
treachery. You cannot escape history.
The first clue came about
as a tiny yet distracting rash appeared beneath my wedding rings.
I thought it might be residual dish soap so I switched brands. The
rash grew. It formed its own ring, mocking the gold tethers that
had for so long been secure on my finger. A battle waged on.
Which ring would win? Reluctantly, I removed the heavy bangles of
love and ensconced safely way they were. Overnight, the rash subsided.
But to my eyes, the beads of anger remained. Threatening to return
full force.
Freedom. A wave of
freedom overcame me once the rings were gone. Akin to the feeling
one gets when the last rush of diarrhea is over and the stomach finally
settles as the anus stops throbbing. I was free. Marriage was
my secret prison. At first it was a garden. A lovely place
to visit. For solace. A secure haven. After the tortures
of the day were over, marriage was a balm to numerous attacks. Both
real and imagined. A cloak of protection, much like that which
is worn by those who handle toxic waste.
Insecurities. Who
has then once married? A different wave. This one carries me
past the excessive weight gain from too many years of marriage. Too
many pounds for the dating scene but I am married. My husband loves
my cooking. Something new every night. I eat the leftovers,
I confess. Baking. Every morning. How about sex?
Well. Those pretty outfits are no longer necessary. I’ll just
come to bed naked or wearing my old nightgown. Life it up for me.
No sense taking it off. We won’t be long.
Prison. When did this
garden grow walls? What was I keeping in? My husband.
Another wave. He is so attractive. Even after working all day.
You are so lucky. Better watch out. I’ll make him mine.
More laughs. This wave tempers nausea with perfume.
Freedom. From the
prison that was formerly a garden, springs a roof that prevents the sun
and stars from shining down. Oh, there is a little window.
Protected by bars. The flowers stop growing. Even the bees
forget to visit. The shadows grow longer. The corners are menacing,
not to mention, crawling with pests. Still, it was once a haven and
if you squeeze your eyes shut, you can still see an image of a garden.
The place that was once
so eagerly visited now becomes a chore. A burden. Only upkeep,
no pleasure. I would like to leave. But how to you depart?
The host was once so gracious. You even masqueraded together.
It is too late to simply exit. That would be
Rude. But the air is so stifling.
I take a spoon and begin
to shovel my way out. First I level the mountains the lies.
No more pretending. Soon I have a barren highway in front of me.
Oddly flat. There are no obstacles now. Only a long empty road
surrounded by walls. Maybe the mountains made things more interesting.
Is it too late to spoon them back? I try. They look contrived.
I flatten them once more. Dust is floating in the air. I choke.
A new wave. This one
creeps up and grabs me from behind. Shocking me into action.
Suddenly the roof opens and I am catapulted up and away. Eastward.
Blindly through the air. A mad sight indeed. I look back.
Are there flowers growing? I hesitate. Too late. I hit
the ground. Indecision. The time has past. Even I did
see flowers, I cannot go back. The roof closes. I am on the
outside. Maybe these is a garden beyond the formidable walls.
Maybe not.
Reluctantly I pick myself
up. I walk away. I smell shit. Fresh manure wafting from
the deserted garden. Still hoping to return despite the trials.
My garden. My prison.
Freedom. Marriage. Was I seeing the truth, ever? I take
a new direction. As I make my way forward, I pass many people.
They know something I do not. They are armed with shovels, hats and
spades. Carrying boxes and bags. Plants. They march onward
to my garden. Then I notice what is curious. Each person is
joined to the other. It is discreet but there are chains. And
the powerful stench of fresh manure. Only I know from whence
comes that hideous odour.
The garden attracts them.
They are propelled forward. Not even the stink deters them.
Perhaps only those who have left understand. Gardens and prisons.
Walls around both.
What is the difference? The escape.
The End
