Rooms of Sun

I sit here crying.

When Roger and I began our discussions about getting married, we walked around his house, remodeling in our imaginations. He wanted me to know that that his house would become mine, that I could remake this one to fit me as well as him. We were talking about me eventually moving out of the Charleston single style house I had owned for five years, where I had been raising my daughter and where I had fought for the life of my mother. There, I had history. I had private spaces to hide out in, a whole house, in fact, that bore the stamp of me. As an introvert, I gain strength from being quiet and alone. From familiar surroundings. From meditation. From writing. I need those times.


I was afraid. Marrying into a loud and boisterous three-person family could take away those quiet times.

“We can do this,” he said.

My daughter and his daughter, just a year apart, best friends, ran through the house and out the back door toward the pool with screeches and squeals. Roger’s teenage daughter blasted music upstairs in her room. Somewhere a Wii sounded off. And a train passed by on the tracks behind the house.

I didn’t respond.

We moved onto his then screened in back porch. Off to the side, I could see the creek that fed into the reservoir across the street, a blanket of purple water hyacinths hiding the gators and turtles. I saw the wall of trees that bordered his property. Confederate jasmine was blooming on the trellis on the deck, scenting the air. And the magnolia tree comforted me, reminding me of years of climbing in similar branches.

I like porches. Part of a house, but not part of a house. They are transitional spaces between the indoors and the outdoors, a little of both. The fringe. I could like being on the fringe.

“I know this is crazy. But I could do this more easily, if , if, maybe, we turned this into a sunroom. Full of light and air and natural sounds. I could come out here when in there becomes too much. I could have a space for me.”

Roger turned to me, took my hand and smiled.

“Sure.”

I didn’t know if he would really do it. I have had men whose words didn’t match their actions, whose lives existed in layers of essential contradictions. I loved Roger for many reasons, but one was that his words and actions matched. He followed through. He was one of those family men who could be counted on to mow the grass, fix the stopped up drain, be where he said he would be, and quietly work through conflict. He had never even raised his voice in my presence. And he was also sexy and funny and charming and smart. Everything I wanted. I thought maybe it was too good to be true. After all, I had made poor choices before. I had failed miserably in being married before. I had seen more than one mask ripped off to reveal someone I didn’t recognize. How would I know he was real?

Actions. Consistent actions. Actions that match words.

So now, just over a week married, I sit on that enclosed porch. Our sunroom. Everyone else is still asleep. I hear bird song, our daughters’ 4-H chickens scratching for food, the leaves in the breeze, the pool pump humming, our dogs wrestling in the yard. And I can see how much he loves me in each board, each pane of glass. So, I am crying – because I now believe in second chances. I now believe in the vision we have set out for our new family. I now believe in him.