Elliot jumped when he heard the click in his ear. He was shocked that she'd just hung up on him. He hadn't meant to piss her off. Then he realized that she hadn't been pissed. She had told him to do something. Then next thing he knew, he was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV with the wedding album in his lap.
She had told him there was a chance, a slim chance, definitely, and more than likely their last chance, but he would take it. He'd lost everything in the past couple of years, family, friends, and faith, everything that made him feel secure, but the only thing he couldn't make it without, the only thing he had to have back, was his family. They were his whole world, the foundation upon which he had built every other good thing he had ever had, and without them, everything else had just gone to hell.
He opened the program from his wedding mass, but his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't read the poem. Resting it in the album in his lap, he took a deep fortifying breath and began to read.
A Woman's Beloved
By Marguerite Wilkinson
A Psalm
To what shall a woman liken her beloved,
And with what shall she compare him to do him honor?
He is like the close-folded new leaves of the woodbine, odorless, but sweet,
Flushed with a new and swiftly rising life,
Strong to grow and give glad shade in summer.
Even thus should a woman's beloved shelter her in time of anguish.
And he is like the young robin, eager to try his wings,
For within soft-stirring wings of the spirit has she cherished him,
And with the love of the mother bird shall she embolden him, that his flight may avail.
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A woman's beloved is to her as the roots of the willow,
Long, strong, white roots, bedded lovingly in the dark.
Into the depths of her have gone the roots of his strength and of his pride,
That she may nourish him well and become his fulfilment.
None may tear him from the broad fields where he is planted!
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Tears blurred his vision. He wiped them away with the back of his shirtsleeve and continued reading.
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A woman's beloved is like the sun rising upon the waters, making the dark places light,
And like the morning melody of the pine trees.
Truly, she thinks the roses die joyously
If they are crushed beneath his feet.
A woman's beloved is to her a great void that she may illumine,
A great king that she may crown, a great soul that she may redeem.
And he is also the perfecting of life,
Flowers for the altar, bread for the lips, wine for the chalice.
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You that have known passion, think not that you have fathomed love.
It may be that you have never seen love's face.
For love thrusts aside storm-clouds of passion to unveil the heavens,
And, in the heart of a woman, only then is love born.
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To what shall I liken a woman's beloved,
And with what shall I compare him to do him honor?
He is a flower, a song, a struggle, a wild storm,
And, at the last, he is redemption, power, joy, fulfillment and perfect peace.
He finished reading the poem and laughed, and at the same time he cried like a baby. He didn't try to stop the tears; he wouldn't have been able if he had wanted to. When he was a kid, when they'd gotten married, he hadn't even understood all of the words, let alone what they meant. Now, it all made perfect sense to him.
He could remember being that guy, when he and Kathy had shared that kind of love, and he ached for all he had lost, for everything that he had carelessly allowed to slip away. He let himself crumple over slowly and lay on his side on the carpet curled around the wedding album, and for a while, he let the despair overwhelm him.