Bands of Gold

was not married in a church. A country registry office witnessed my vows to my wife. I remember the dust as it swam about the priest's head. Though I am not sure if it was a priest or simple celebrant with the power to join people forever (or until they decided otherwise).

I remember his breath. It reminded me of mother's spaghetti, parsley sautéed in garlic with a little meat sauce.

Marriage in a registry office doesn't hold any regrets for me. Ceremonies and celebrations are not my cup of tea. I prefer coffee anyhow. My, then fiancée tried to fight me on this issue but she should have known better.

"Then we won't get married" is all I had to say.

She would cry for a while and then see things as I did. Such was the power of marriage.

In fact she cried on our wedding day. Not tears of happiness I might add. I suppose she had reason. There were five people at our wedding. The garlic priest and two witnesses. These were nameless people though I suppose their names are on our wedding certificate if I should ever feel the urge to verify their existence.

I tried to explain that my commitment was to my wife and not to society. So we made it a policy not to invite family. Her mother and father were not allowed at our wedding. I guess this is what upset her, though I think her tears on our wedding night were a bit much.

I forgive her because I am not the sort of man that carries a grudge for any great length of time. That is one of the reasons that she loves me so.

My wife's name is Sonia.

She now calls herself Sonia Harding whereas people used to know her as Sonia Manitch. People say that she has a much prettier name now. I would tend to agree with them.

It might sound as though marriage means nothing to me but there could be nothing further from the truth. I wear my wedding band now and it will stay with me until I die an old, and relatively happy, man.

I remember exchanging vows with my wife and sliding the ring onto her finger. It glinted in the brave sunshine that had negotiated the windowsill, rode the dust and lit the yellow gold like a warm fire. The ring is a symbol of the commitment I have made and I shall remove neither ring nor commitment. Holding Sonia's trembling hand that day, I knew she felt the same way.

I do not make decisions lightly. In my life the people around me have flirted and fucked and cheated and lied, separated then divorced.

That is not me.

My wife is for life.

Although Sonia and I did not engage in the traditional type of wedding we did manage to fit in a honeymoon. I couldn't find an objection. My wife and I, the sand and a sunset. Nothing could be simpler.

We spent some weeks, two I think, on a beach on an island. There were a lot of dark children who spoke enough English too quickly to trust. They did not find much joy in my holiday. I made it abundantly clear that there would be no scraps falling from my dinner plate. The first time I caught my wife being sympathetic to the locals she no longer gave handouts either. God bless her generous heart but she would have to learn.

The honeymoon holds no special memories for me although Sonia used to talk of it often. During this holiday we made love more often than we ate hot meals. It was a special time.

"Michael come down to the beach" my wife would call to me as I slept much of the morning away.

"Michael come shopping with me" she enticed me with promises of lingerie.

"Michael let's make love again" she would whisper into my ear as I pretended to sleep, escaping her insatiable, precious passion.

She tried in many ways to rouse my interest, to get me involved. But she didn't understand that I enjoyed our holiday, that I didn't need to spend every breathing, living, thoughtful moment in some kind of spontaneous activity. However I did not resist her efforts during the honeymoon. There was plenty of time to teach her how things would be after she had lived the honeymoon tradition.

"Yes my love" I would say "I am coming".

"As you wish"

"If that's what you'd like to do"

"I can't see any reason why not"

One day melted into another. The heat (and sometimes my wife) was unbearable. And yet I never raised my voice. In fact the only time I ever had a cross word with my wife was after I spent an afternoon by myself.

From an early age I have never felt the need to ask people when I want to do something. The same thing applies in marriage. Granted there would be some concessions but when a mood drifts me in one direction that is where I will fall.

This particular afternoon whilst Sonia was shopping, I decided to go fishing. I had every intention of being home before she was done but alas one fish led to another. I was washed away in the adulation of natives and near fed an entire village.

Nigh on 6:00 in the evening I returned with the setting sun. My wife was already sitting at the dinner table (Dinner was included in our package, as was breakfast and a free windsurfing lesson). I approached the table from behind and Sonia sat there quite alone. She looked lost without her husband. Three other couples sat laughing around her or perhaps at her. She did not see me approach. I wanted nothing more in the world than to walk up and drown her in my arms.

My embrace was warm but coldly received. Sonia made it clear that my unannounced absence was not appreciated.

"You could have let me know ... police ... worried sick ... where you were ... scared ... alone ... "

I decided under the circumstances that I should not take my seat at the table. I left her there with two meals and several inquisitive, and rather rude, faces.

As I walked the beach under the cold moon and warm sand I thought of her. I felt her humiliation. I lived her exasperation. Yet I held my determination. In a life together the rules had to be set. I was merely setting out the foundations of a secure marriage. Sonia might not appreciate it now, but someday she would learn to respect my strength of character.

The next day Sonia's tears washed away the sand that encrusted the side of my head. Sleeping under palm trees is not all that poetry suggests it might be. To this day she has never asked me where I spent my night. She accepted the disciplinary measure and loved me all the more.

Thus ended our honeymoon that was the beginning of our lives together. Although it was not a perfect way to start a marriage it was a strong inauguration. Though I did not see it then, I began to love my wife for all that she put up with. Her love was always uncompromising. Little did I know that looking into her eyes could mean more to me than a rising sun or that watching her sleep would become a pleasure in itself.

Our first child Peter was born on a Winter Wednesday. I remember my pride as I sat back with a cigar in my mouth, choking on unfamiliar smoke. I recall my wife's pleasure as her voice sang to me long distance over the telephone and into my mountain hotel room. I spared no expense. I watched the wall clock tick over and saw the dollars wash away with each swing of the pendulum. And yet I let my wife talk for a good 10 minutes.

Such was my pleasure. Such was my joy.

That first child was called Peter because Sonia wanted a name from the bible. Perhaps a child under this influence would not fall upon errant ways.

Our second child was named Boris because it had nothing to do with the bible. Once again the telephone burned mutual pleasure in having another child a mere 12 months later. Women truly are a wonderful species.

Boris was born on a Sunday too hot for hospitals. At least it was hot in Shanghai. I was sort of on business, sort of not. I stayed away from my wife at these times because of my love for her. That sounds ironic, perhaps ridiculous, but I know it to be the truth. I could not stand to witness Sonia's pain. How could I watch the woman that I loved go through agony. The blood, pain, and screaming, the doctors, sharp implements, and more pain.

However I never left her alone.

My closest friend Jacob stood in for that which I could not, would not, attend. Jacob and I met on the golf course a year before I married Sonia. We played 18 holes the first Sunday every month there after. He was younger than me, better looking perhaps, but not as passionate. He was a little uncomfortable at the thought of being with my wife during the birth of my children, but eventually (and a new pair of golf shoes later) he obliged.

His body was there. My wife's pain/pleasure was there. My children were there. My spirit embraced them all and kept them warm though they never realised that the glow those special days was a part of me. I would wait for that phone call and though it may wake me in the middle of the night, though it may be reverse charges, I lived for those moments.

Jacob would start the call with some anecdotal reference to my "putter". Then he would speak of my new child. His pleasure warmed me. Then my wife would get on the phone.

"Love" she would simply say.

"Ahhh" what more could I say?

"Boris is here" She whispered and I knew she held him close to the phone. Our boys were named before they were born. Looking back we did not prepare a name for a baby girl but then again I knew the occasion would not call for one.

"You are wonderful" I told her.

"We are" she was weeping but beaming.

"I'm sorry ..." I proffered.

"Don't" she glowered "I understand".

And she did. She understood and always would. I can only remember apologizing to my wife twice. Each time after my wife gave birth. A cigar I didn’t enjoy followed each time.

Every time I smell the strong offensive perfume of the cigar I think of my lads. A crowded pub, a smoking restaurant, a business meeting. All these things remind me of my two boys.

My life with my wife has had few hiccups.

One of these was the night she left me.

I remember the moment as though it has been branded on my mind, heart and soul. I walked into our bedroom as Sonia was packing a suitcase and sat on the edge of the bed. Uncharacteristically she tossed things haphazardly into her case. She cleared the bathroom. Her perfume spilled into the toiletry bag and the fumes seemed to burn like an augury.

"Well aren't you going to ask me what I doing?" She screamed like an accusation.

It was hard to understand what she was saying, let alone what she was doing. She was sobbing and gasping, hysterical if you like. I was most uncomfortable with the situation.

To this day I cannot understand what it was that pushed her to the edge. I have been there a million times and dealt with it internally. I didn't feel that it was fair that she dragged me into her private hysteria but perhaps I was part of the problem. And yet I loved her, I was not going to turn away from her need.

I found myself sitting on the edge of that bed watching undergarments fly with uncanny precision from the wardrobe into the opened suitcase, which sat at diagonals to me.

"What is it my love?" I asked her.

"That's exactly it" she shot back at me rather nastily. "Do you really love me? You say it with about as much passion as an obsequial. Why don't you ever show me how you feel, give a little of yourself."

I sat there dumbfounded. How could she accuse me of such abhorrence. She knew how much I loved her. She was my wife and my life. No other could take her place. I told her that on our honeymoon.

I tried to touch her as she struggled to close the suitcase. She shied from my touch as though it were acid. It burned me.

"How can I help?" I asked in desperate monotone.

"What can I do?" I offered her though I knew it wasn't enough.

She turned to me and swept me up with one gaze. Then Sonia talked as though the floodgates had burst.

Through her tears I heard a lot that made sense, and a lot that didn't. Some of the things that she told me that night have stayed with me my entire life. Others I have blanketed in deliberate amnesia, preferring to referring as dreams in darker dimensions of my subconscious.

At the end of her story of my life she managed to close that suitcase and sealed the prophecies of cheap perfume. I saw that she really meant to leave me.

"But where shall you go?" I asked. It was the first thing I had said since her outrageous accusations of my unloving nature.

"I don't know" she blubbered totally illogically.

In her devotion to our marriage she had lost touch with her friends. She didn't work and had no money other than that which I gave her. Sonia's life was mine and she just stood there with tears in her eyes demanding something, which just could not be. She knew I could never give her freedom. Sonia was mine, as I was hers.

Yet I felt torn. I knew that there was nowhere for her to go. I was sure that she would be back. But the thought of her away from my side gave me a moment of insecurity.

I did the only thing that I could think of. I did not want to deny my wife anything. If she wanted to leave (though it might tear my little world apart) I would let her. I provided some money for a hotel, after all I didn't want her sleeping in the streets.

Sonia was gone. Deftly I told lies to Boris and Peter. They never suspected a thing. During that week I did not sleep and brought up most of what I ate, I think there was some sort of virus going around. I left the front door slightly ajar for days on end.

"Structural difficulties" I told Boris.

"Someone will come around to look at it soon" I explained to Peter. "But right now the door stays as is".

We lost our dog during that week. "Dog" as it was called, just up and walked out of the open front door. Instead of finding that which I had lost I had more rent asunder. I closed the door after that fearing other showers of ill fortune.

Dog didn't come back but Sonia did.

She was gone a week and handed back every cent that I had given her. She told me that she had gone to a friend's place to spend the week. I had no idea which friend she was talking about because as far as I knew she didn't have any friends.

"Which friends?" I asked.

"I doesn't matter" she tried unsuccessfully to brush me off.

"But it does" I persisted. "Did you spend the week with your parents?" I hated it when she spent time with her parents. They tried to coerce her, and take her away from me. Didn't they realise that Sonia could never possibly leave a love that embraced her entire life.

"Just leave it" she raised her voice.

"But I won't" I responded calmly "You know I can't".

"I was at Jacob's" she let out a sigh as though she had just exorcised a demon.

I looked at her. Her hair was in her face, I suspect that it hid things she knew I could read in her expression. But she had no need of fear or reprisal. I am not a jealous person. Jacob was a decent man, a good man. More tha n anything I was relieved.

I trusted him as a friend. I trusted her as my love. I moved to her and we hugged.

That moment in our life was a turning point. My love never left me again but we learned to spend more time apart to pursue other interests. I guess that she grew up a lot during that period. We spent much time apart, more than I wished to spend away from the one thing that I loved. I guess that maybe, if only I could have told her...

I am not a man who lives with regret. Our time apart was a personal growth which only strengthened our marriage. Sonia finally accepted that I liked to go fishing on weekends. In fact she actually encouraged me on occasions. And when I got home she would be all smiles as though the time that we spent apart were moments in which we could appreciate each other in our mutual solitude.

There would always be a meal in the oven, kept warm for whatever hour I might decide to return from an outing. My wife would look like a flower. The house would be immaculate and there would always be a fresh set of linen on the bed. These were times that our boys were at boarding school. Times we could spend together. And although our lovemaking was never quite what it once was, I lived for the moments I could lie by her side.

My life was not entirely self-indulgent. When Boris and Peter came back from the boarding school I often acquiesced to Sonia's dreams of brighter pastures. I think that as the boys approached a difficult age my wife wanted to escape some of the responsibilities that she clearly saw as a father's duty.

It was in these developmental years that I was grateful to my friend Jacob. He would often offer to take Sonia away and look after her for me. I felt warm inside knowing that my love was safe when away from home.

And as my boys grew older Sonia spent more time away from home. I was happy in these times. It gave me time to reminisce brighter days. I could take care of the garden and had the bed all to myself.

The more time that my wife spent away from me the less I used to ask her where she had been. It was not that I was afraid of the answers you understand. It was my way of telling my wife that I trusted her absolutely and that nothing would ever raise a doubt in my mind. I was sticking to her through thick and thin, better or worse.

Moments in which I missed her simply meant that I would appreciate her all the more when she was around. I learned to cook for myself. I deftly scrambled eggs in the morning, could carve up a mean corn beef sandwich, and reproduced my mother's spaghetti with such perfection that each plate brought a side serve of garlic priests and bands of gold.

Ironically in the times I needed most, my friends seemed to drift away from me. Jacob drifted into the archives of my memory. My boys found their own lives and despite the love that I showered them with all these years they seemed to forget their dad.

When I saw Sonia she would ask "Don't you miss me?" though it was more of a plea than a question.

"Sometimes" I casually answered when I desperately meant "always my love"

"Aren't you lonely?" she sounded more concerned than she wanted to appear.

"Only between trips to the library" I offered when another part of me cried, "Yes - desperately".

Every time my wife left the house she would always call to me as she walked the length of the hall;

"I'm leaving now" or "I'm going".

Going, going, gone. I wanted to call out to her; don’t leave me. Never leave. Let me hold you one more time, I won't ever let you go. Let me watch you sleep, brush your teeth, tie up your shoelaces. I want to drink in your life along with my corn beef sandwiches.

I could not even manage a simple "goodbye".

My wife left me each time. That is until two weeks ago, when she didn't even manage to arrive.

It was 13 days, six hours ago (well actually just a little bit less) that my life changed.

Sonia passed away.

I call it "passed away" although I could understand others might look upon it as having glorious life obliterated from a world that deserves better.

It was constable O'Cleary that told me the news. I remember his name because it struck me as a strange coincidence. As a child our family used to live next door to an O'Cleary family. I wonder whether it was one and the same.

I don't much remember anything else in the conversation. In fact I still don't know how Sonia died. I am not sure whether O'Cleary explained the facts to me or I just let the phone drop. However I do know for sure that I let the phone drop because within three days Peter arrived at my front door without his wife Pat and three children (their names escape me right now). He was most concerned that he could not get through on the phone. I was a little embarrassed to admit that I had forgotten to hang it up.

Boris arrived soon afterwards. It was the Sunday that he came to me sporting a new haircut of which I did not approve. I sat with my boys and without my wife. I looked at each of them as they tried to help me sort out my life. They practically shoved food down my mouth.

I looked closely at Peter as he helped me shower. His eyes were full of concern, like his mothers. But he was a stranger to me.

Boris was more familiar. His temper was short and his will strong. He was more my son than Peter. He refused to help me wash. Lost interest in feeding me within a week.

During this time I managed to keep my senses about me. Within a week or two I had sorted myself out. I guess looking back on it now I was in a state of shock. It wasn't only because of my wife's departure, I got the most amazing bill for rates this quarter. The council must be losing its mind.

My mind was back in action. I had to get rid of these boys, after all a man has his dignity. One morning as my lads ate breakfast, and talked about me, I pretended to be on the phone.

I hung up.

"Who were you talking to dad?" Peter asked.

"Jacob" I replied.

"Who's that?" retorted Boris a little skeptical. Ahhh, he's a bright lad.

"My friend in the mountains. I told him about ... my misfortune. He want's me to come stay with him a while." My lie was complete, perfect.

Within a morning I had convinced the boys that I was being genuine. I had to promise Peter that I would not drive myself to the little mountain hideaway. I had to give Boris the car keys.

That evening I waved my boys goodbye for the last time. I sat in the bus and the window slowly fogged fading my expression of loss. I did not want to leave my boys but could not tell them otherwise. This was not the way things should be.

I let the window fog and cursed the bus driver for being late. Boris and Peter moved about uneasily under the streetlights in that cold winter evening. I think I saw them wave to me as the bus eased onto the highway.

The cabin in the mountains did exist and the bus was a means to that end. Within 24 hours it stopped not short of the drive.

I walked up to the gate that I had visited only once before. Jacob had written the words "The Resting Place" haphazardly on a sign that had never hung totally straight on an old pine tree. It cowered under the sharp metal sign which shadowed it, reading "For Sale" in bloody red letters.

Jacob had offered this residence for sale at least six months ago and only had one person look over the property since. I remember it clearly because Sonia had told me of the opportunity. I had scoffed at the idea of purchasing. It seemed only natural that I come here now. I know that Sonia had been here several times before. It seems that part of her was on this property.

I strolled along the road and she was in the gravel. I looked amongst the trees and surely her face was there to be seen. The wind carried her scent and the beauty of the landscape reeked of her sweet soul.

Considering the isolation of this place (it took me an hour to walk the drive!) the log house was not in bad condition. I left my bag by the kitchen table. Instinctively I knew where the bedroom was. I did not enter that place.

Later that evening I found myself on the swing seat out on the porch. Trees towered over the cabin. The night drowned me in familiar darkness. The following day beamed blue and green on me.

I considered all the places on this earth that I would like to be and the answer seemed quite simple.

Anywhere with my wife. And without her this patio was just about as good as it was going to get. The bush helped me deal with my emotions. The midnight cold bit into me and that pain took me away from sad memories. The noon sun burned my eyes and washed away the things I would rather not have seen.

But in the golden haze of sunset and sunrise I beheld my magic. During the birth and death of each sun my love came to me again. I dared not move from my squeaky seat. And with each yellow glow her spirit was emblazoned upon the horizon.

...the sun lit the yellow gold like a warm fire.

Insatiable, precious passion.

Such was my pleasure, such was my joy.

"Love" she would simply say.

I guess that maybe, if only I could have told her...

With every passing day and night my penance of insomnia and fasting paid dividends. Each glorious setting my love became more tangible.

Until I walked with her once more.

Read the review

Back to the archive

Return to.... SSC