my wife, the savior

I’ve started to wonder about my wife Christine. I found her in the office the other week making sandals, a heap of buckles and leather soles at her side. The next day I watched her pouring water into empty Merlot bottles. Then she told me she knew someone who’d send a plague of locusts down on me if I didn’t scrub the toilet more often. That’s when I saw the latest set of charity mailing labels (see above; address crossed out to prevent potential pilgrimages).

This identity confusion dates back to my wife's school days. On every standardized test she ever took, there were only enough boxes for V-I-E-L-M-E-T-T-I (space) C-H-R-I-S-T, the last three letters of her first name always lopped off. Raised Catholic, this has obviously had a profound impact on her. And is only reinforced by the junk mail and magazines she receives addressed to Christ Vielmetti.

A few days ago, I watched her bring in a load of wood, picking splinters from her hands and forearms. When I offered to help, she flashed this calm and patient smile. “I really don’t mind,” she said, her eyes following me wherever I moved. Now, when I wake up first, I'll study her for a few minutes, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling. Then I think perhaps it’s best not to disturb her. Just keep my mouth shut and wait for her to rise.