What Happened to the Muse?
"I used to be your Muse," she says,
"What happened? What happened to all the
poems and stories you wrote for me?"
My mind flips through the pages of days and months and years:
the first chapters was all the mystery of learning each other, the
fascinating movement of your body, your hands, your lips, your eyes,
and the plays we saw together, the walks in the park, and then
flip ahead a few chapters and they are filled mostly with
you pushing me to find new jobs with better pay because the
kids needed braces or the house needed a new roof or we
needed a new house, and saving for the kids college, and
me getting my MBA (to keep on getting that new job) and
all the meetings at Church to try to teach us to be a better couple and
your questioning why I am not living up to the ideal of the Christian
husband, and after 15 years why don't I know where the dishes go and
why don't I remember that you don't like sausage on your pizza and
why am I always so passive aggressive about what restaurant we should go to,
why don't I just pick one for godsakes?! and inevitably there is the
"she's MY daughter and if I want to give her money to go on a trip then I will
and you can't say shit about it and I don't give a fuck WHAT you say because you
are always so controlling about the money and how much money do we have anyway?"
and no, I really don't know what happened to the Muse.
I think she may have been misplaced in some cupboard, maybe a few houses back,
because I really never bothered to learn where to put her.