de to Sheila, Patron Saint of the Manic Husband
I am, by reputation and record,
A man of kinetic weather—
Barometric shifts before breakfast, Forecasts revised before lunch, Grand economic models by dinner And a new one by dessert.
I pace like a futures market.
I annotate life in footnotes.
I wake at 3 a.m. with revelations About gasoline spreads or destiny— And whisper, “Sheila… are you awake?” (She is not. But somehow she is.)
And then there is Parkinson’s— That uninvited editor of motion, That tremor in the margins, That stubborn metronome Ticking beneath the music.
It tests the patience of mornings.
It rearranges simple things.
Buttons become negotiations.
Coffee becomes choreography.
And still— Sheila.
She does not sigh in exasperation.
She does not tally the cost.
She stands steady as Lake Michigan in summer, Even when my internal weather
Swings from squall to sunshine.
When my hands tremble, Hers become harbor. When my thoughts scatter, Hers gather them like warm laundry.
When I rage at the betrayal of muscle, She meets it with a look that says, “You are still you. And I am still here.” She has learned the language of slowness Without making it small. She waits without watching the clock.
She steadies without making it obvious.
She laughs when I insist
That I can absolutely carry everything at once— And quietly carries half of it anyway.
There are days When I am less patient with myself
Than she has ever been with me.
Days when frustration rises sharp and metallic.
Days when pride bruises easily.
On those days
She is not a nurse.
Not a supervisor.
Not a saint in stained glass.
She is my wife.
She teases me about my manic spreadsheets.
She rolls her eyes at my midnight theories.
She kisses the temple that worries too much.
She reminds me that love Is not diminished by tremor.
If devotion were measured in market strength, She would be blue-chip eternal.
If grace were indexed, She would outperform every year.
And I— Manic husband,
Reluctant student of slowness— Am the luckiest man alive. Because Parkinson’s may test muscle, And mania may test patience, But nothing has yet discovered The outer boundary Of Sheila’s heart.
And when my hands shake, They shake holding hers. And that — Is steady enough.