constructs of time

Every now and again I question why my parents never divorced. Through Dad's 100+ hour weeks, Mom's alcoholism, annual summer separation, and general disinterest in one another they never appeared fulfilled.

Maybe the idea of marital fulfillment and satisfaction is a new construct. Maybe they were stubborn. Maybe they were in love but enough hardship had rubbed away the gloss of it. I don't think I will ever have the answer to what happened thirty-odd years ago that set everything in motion.

One morning at the detox center Dad kissed Mom. It was beautiful. She looked awful. He was in a suit for work. I was hungover. Carly was there. I'm glad I went that morning.

I've always swayed with my blame. Was it mom's fault? Dad's fault? 

A few weeks ago Dad and I were sitting on the back stoop. We rarely talk about Mom and the future but I was asking him if he ever talks to his siblings. I told him I'm sad for him. He said, "I had 36 years with her. That's more than a lot of people get." 

Later that evening he sat on the end of the couch with her blanketed feet propped on his lap.