Why I’d Marry You

I wanted to sing to you the song that reminded me of him. You see, I sang that song to him years ago, before he hurt me so, I used to think it was such a beautiful song, and now all I can think of is all the pain he caused when I trusted him so.

I resigned myself to him. How could I have given him such a beautiful song? I loved music then, was revered for my voice, and I wanted to share my gift with someone. There was no one else. I settled for him, I thought no one else would love me, and I opened myself to him, just to find out he was not music but the sound of a car accident. The sound of chaos. And now, when I think of that song, all I hear is the crush of metal, and all I feel is the pain of the survivor of the crash.

My past should not be like that. Music should not be like that. I should hear birds singing, orchestras.

That is why I came to you with the song. I wanted to sing it to you, in my now aging, hoarse, unrehearsed voice, so I could think of flowers in bloom again when I hear music.

And we sat on my living room floor, were we playing cards?, on that little grey carpet, when I told you I wanted to sing it. You sat attentively, not four feet away, waiting for me to start. And I began to sing, like the many times I heard the song play in my mind.

But something was different, wrong, this time, it was not how it was supposed to be, I only heard the crash, and I didn’t hear the birds. I didn’t know what to feel. And I started to cry.

But I had to sing the song, I thought, don’t worry, just keep singing, the pain of trying to remember in order to forget will soon disappear. But it didn’t. By the second verse, not even half way through the song, I was sobbing; crying so hard I could barely speak, much less sing. So I stopped. And cried.

And you sat there for a moment, watching me cry, waiting to see if I would stop. I couldn’t. The tears were streaming down my face; I couldn’t regain myself.

And then you nudged your way over to me, and grabbed me, grabbed me harder than I have ever been held before. And you sat on the floor, and pressed my head into your chest, and rocked me back and forth. And I could tell by your breathing that you were about to cry too. You, who had never heard the crash, or felt the pain. You, feeling my pain.

And then you began to sing. Your cracking voice sang the next line of the song, and it made me cry more, but only in my love for you. And the both of us cried and sang the rest of the song together. I don’t know if it was the song that became beautiful, or if it was the fact that you brought your beauty to me. But for one small moment, after the echo of the crash had stopped, I could begin to hear the birds.

Copyright Janet Kuypers.
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