Marital Secrets

Every week, Julia at Julia's Place, imparts a prompt around which bloggers must construct a hundred words. I find it addictive. The idea is creative writing but I find those random challenges ferret out aspects of domestic reality that I might never have thought to blog about. This week, in honour of the Jubilee, Julia requires a poem that reflects the passing of sixty years. I have no idea how to write poetry and my domestic reality doesn't yet accommodate sixty years. But then I remembered my father's oft-narrated tale of a colleague on his local paper who returned stunned from a routine visit to report a couple's diamond wedding anniversary:

Side by side they sit in the parlour,

Serenity on chintz.

Her hand, fragile as the flowered porcelain, pours the tea

And, wordlessly, he thanks her.

Behind, their family drifts through the decades on the mantel,

The newlyweds briefly multiplying, 
Then, as years pass, shrinking back into a twosome;

Shrivelled but smiling in the silver frames.

Sixty years.

'What,' asks their guest, 'is the secret?'

'Give..' she quavers, 'and take.'

Her husband bears the teapot to the kitchen and, urgent, she leans forward.

A pulse of energy awakens the room.

Notebook poised the guest awaits new wisdom.

'I hate him, you know,' says the old lady.

He returns, tartan slippers treading meekly.

She flings a glance then, hissing, confides:

'I've always hated him.'