always marriage, never ambition

The Roches -Hammond Song

I lost a friend to the illusion of marriage.

The most bizarre thing was not the change brought by the introduction of a man

(near blasphemy, I must say).

Change is bound to happen—inevitable with the encounter of novelty.

Novelty in itself is bizarre.

Yes, and yet,

the most bizarre thing was in the ordinary:

the unexpected willingness to abandon the self in the face of imagined union,

and the imagined happiness tied to it—

tying oneself to this illusion,

illustrating it through meek, childish displays of marital love—whatever that is.

To behold it as a previous lover, carer, friend,

now forever demoted to mere observer—

the man promoted as partner—

himself not having known the person more than thirty days.

How disposable it is to be friend,

how much more indelible to be enemy!

Perhaps it is my contentment in platonic company and family

that immunizes me from disparagement

regarding my refusal of marriage, of love, of romance.

I do not hate men; I love all three of them—

four if we’re counting my brother,

two if they are abstract,

and one if I might never meet them.

My friend suspects envy;

it is not moral to entertain such claims,

lest it fortify it with dignity.

And if I were of higher status,

known to the right circle of people,

known to power, known to wealth—

perhaps I would be celebrated as a writer.

And perhaps I would remain friend,

closer than a partner.

Or rather, that she be inspired not to succumb

to the same temptations as have generations of women before us—

to the mirage of happy matrimony and its promised reality.

But to say it does not exist does not help you;

therefore, it does not help me.

And if our ancestor's groaning cannot convince,

the world cannot help you—

and neither can we.