A Poem My Husband Wrote for Me

An older photo of "Angry Bird" playing a coffee house


A reformed Angry Bird playing in '07


Chris (left), Chad and Mark played at our wedding as Angry Bird


My good friend Eric and me (behind the drums) played also at our wedding

Many don't know I used to rock and roll. Before running dogs, I played every Tuesday night in a little artsy bar in Canton called the Luna Grill with my good friend Eric, pictured above with me. Though it kept me out until the wee hours on a work night, the energy and good vibe from playing all night was worth the exhaustion the next day when I had to work all day at Akron Children's Hospital and come home, as a single mother, and take care of my Sophie who at that time was only a toddler.

It was during this time that I met Chris. And our families and friends thought it was so cool when, at our wedding, we provided the entertainment. One of the things that connected Chris and I was music. Having played saxophone for years, Chris's musical prowess was one of the reasons I fell in love with him.

Now, nearly seven years have passed since the days when we'd meet to play at the Luna. And, during difficult times, we all reach back and pull out those highlights that keep us focused during a storm. Many things have served to weather us this last year: my losing my job at the hospital, our frequent travels which keep us apart. So Chris wrote this for me from a hotel room in Vegas just this week, about the days when we played together until the wee hours at the Luna Grill.

To hear a sampling of Chris's music, please go to http://www.myspace.com/cattlebatrecords1

Tuesdays at the Luna

We never seemed to mind losing sleep
On a weeknight,
The hours were in short supply,
But we made the most of our time.

Inspired notes bloomed
From my horn, and nearby
You kept time with a primal pulse,
On your drum kit, a jangly
Folk blues beat that
Shared stories of sadness and joy

In moments between downbeats
We shared a smile
And watched each other make music,
Engaged in our own psychic foreplay,
We pined for the moon to
Illuminate the way.

We shared the silence between notes,
A river to wade into,
No past or present, only now,

The eighth notes and staccato,
Maraca as a drumstick,
Were leaves and buds climbing
This tricky vine, which twisted
Into elegant shapes, but now, I'm afraid,
it¹s contorted in too many directions for us to follow,
The vines have grown over the windows
And darkened our eyes.

Where have we left those two lovers,
Who faced simplicity and modesty together,
Their hope a cornerstone,
A simple mattress on a bedroom floor?

Maybe they're still in that
Smoky room, eyes locked,
Waiting for the next song to begin.