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I remember seeing him out there in the field. I remember when he told me about the time he and she had a fight and how it lasted for two days. He spoke of how she lay with her back facing him, of how they spent that night in a sleepless brawl.

He thought about it in line at the corner Starbucks standing there letting his frustration sifter. He thought about how he waited for her eyes to say something, something that would invite him to apologize. He just kept waiting without knowing what he was mad at and watching her look at him, still loving him, still believing in him, and working hard to change some pattern of the day, but it was too late because he has become committed.

He’s never going to hear her, hear her brushing her teeth, sneeze, or tap her finger on the table without saying anything because he was used to the annoyances. They offered some confusing comfort. He won’t hear that final silence as they sinker off to sleep, when it’s so quiet they can’t hear the train passing by because it’s noticeably part of their stillness.

He won’t see her blink or pick up the fallen eggshells off the floor, he won’t see her draw cat pictures on the water glass, or spend hours clinching pencils. He won’t see or hear her laughing in such a way that positioned him to respond and remember why he cared. He won’t hear her breathe or speak; he won’t see her anger, her sadness, and hate of hate. He won’t see or hear any of it because he has become committed.

He won’t feel her pleasure, her touch on his shoulder leaning into him, comforting him. He won’t feel the static, demanding wind. He won’t feel her waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for seasons to change. He’s never going to hear her forgiveness, see her forgiveness, because he has become committed.

He is committed to the dirt; he’s committed to the worms, to their swamp noises, in the cold soil, in the dark soil. He’s committed to the roots growing under him, growing over him. He’s committed to the churning of the ground and the descending crust. He’s committed to the rotting, to the grieving, to the Earth. Out there in the field, he has become committed.

(2017)