Put It In

“Put it in,” she says.

.

“I really don’t want to,” he replies.

“Put it in,” she says more plaintively.

“You know I’m not good at this,” he whines.

.

“Put it in, I can’t do this by myself, you’ve got to help.”

So he tries, cautious and timid, but his palm is slick with the sweat of worry and anxiety, the soap coated instrument keeps slipping maddeningly out of place. Why in the world does marriage have to contain such frustrating and humiliating rituals? Why in the world does she still insist on engaging in them at their age, and so frequently, it’s getting more difficult for him each time. He supposes it makes her feel more feminine, still the great beauty that she truly was sixty years ago. But she is to him, and he wants her to know it. This ritual is tied to many, many good memories for both of them. He forces his frail hand into a strong grip, holds tight the hard bulb at the end, and stabs the pin through his wife’s lapel.

She straightens and primps the corsage. She pats his cheek. “Thank you, dear,” she says, and they go out the door for their morning walk.