When my wife Jane opens the freezer door and roots around for ice trays, she makes a lot of noise. Ice cubes—some of them, anyway—clatter into glasses, though many more fly about in an alarming way, striking the floor and bouncing around like hailstones. Afterwards, the kitchen counter looks like the leading edge of a glacier. How such a quiet woman, so orderly, so committed to clarity and good sense, could make such a racket and leave behind such chaos, is beyond me.
This process—the Attack on the Ice Trays—used to drive me to distraction, but of late I’ve come to find it, well, endearing. Never again to hear those ice cubes skittering across the floor would be a terrible loss.
It occurs to me, of course, that I, perhaps, have habits which drive her to distraction, and that she, in turn, may find a few of them, in spite of herself, endearing.
Meanwhile, I’ve wasted so much time, kept so much of my attention for myself, failed to watch and listen, been merely irritated with everyone who wasn’t me.
How distinct my wife is, how deliciously (and yes, sometimes irritatingly) herself. It’s a hopeless situation. I can’t change her.And now, to makes matters worse, I don’t want to.
No comments:
Post a Comment