She tells me Justin had good jokes, 
good manners, was a card shark 
and a militant Baptist. They broke up 
because she always burst into giggles 
when he kissed her. She never told him why. 
Giggled, she tells me now, because 
kissing Justin was like kissing a pug. 

So we meet. Justin seems shocked 
to see she’s pregnant. Congratulates her. Us. 
Justin has big lips and a fuzzy face.
Tells funny stories, has impeccable manners.
Says he’s married to a woman who wants 
to make films. Not movies. Films. 
Says she has moods. Big moods.
Says she used to be political but couldn’t choose sides. 
Says she covered their new wallpaper with tinfoil.
Says she subconsciously converted their apartment 
into a dump because that’s what she was used to.
Says she’s bad at choices. 
Like, look, (he laughs) she chose him. 

So, my wife asks, do you love her?
At once Justin and I are both on alert.
Yes, Justin says. Yes, we kiss. A lot.
That’s good, my wife says.

After lunch, 
we all shake hands.

High noon Napa Valley sunshine. 
Juliet is cleaning her hot tub 
when William calls from Coeur d’Alene.
Juliet: ‘Hey old man.’
William: ‘Hey old lady.’

William will perform a wedding 
at mountain sunset. He says 
puddles are frozen and a nasty 
cloud is lowering overhead 
so he’s cleaning the barn to hold guests 
plus the horse and six chickens.
William: ‘The wood stove is smoking. You smell it?’
Juliet: ‘You smell the bromide I’m scrubbing?’

William always calls before weddings. 
With a mail-order license he officiated  
his first, Juliet’s, five decades past — 
hastily arranged in that same barn.
Later she learned: it broke his heart.
Which is why after college he stayed.

Juliet: ‘Fire weather here. It’s scary hot, dry.’
William: ‘Snow tonight. I’ll be pushing cars.’
Tonight, alone, she will soak under stars. 

The calls always end the same:
William: ‘Stay safe.’
Juliet: ‘Keep warm.’
William: ‘I do. I always do.’

“Difference is the ionic bond of marriage” 
said my father. He meant disagreements, 
anger, the electrostatic attraction 
of oppositely charged ions.

Mom belted out I don’t wanna play in your yard
or fingered a delicate Moonlight Sonata 
while Dad couldn’t sing Happy Birthday
except monotone. Deaf to music.

She died. 
He conducted research in blood clotting chemistry 
so when his transient ischemic attacks began
he understood perfectly. 
Told no one.

After, I found lab notes, self-observation 
he’d jotted on a yellow pad with shaky hand:
TIA # 4 Date: 09/09/75 Time: 17:45
Music: — / / ... / / — ... / / —

Near death came music 
which he scribbled as dashes and slashes and dots.
Then no scribbles for the fifth and final attack
but that night as he died alone in his bed
by moonlight surely she sang 
Welcome, come play in my yard
and he heard.