Vows

by Kendra Whitfield

I don’t remember his reason.
Only that it was Christmas Eve
and I was singing carols solo
in the twinkle-lit, festive-decked hall
of a luxe mountain lodge,
surrounded by strangers.

Our marriage was five days old.
I told myself he was tired.
He just didn’t want to come.
What was important to me
was optional for him.
It was too late to change my mind.

Promises had been made,
rings exchanged, confetti thrown.
The last chords of White Christmas
were fading into the alpine night when
I entered our room. He kissed me,
declared, I don’t want to die alone.

His plan for us to die together:
Scotch and sleeping pills,
driving to a scenic viewpoint,
hooking up a hose to the exhaust,
and holding hands when
we were both tired of living.

He held up his pinky finger,
to make it official.
This was just the beginning
of our life together,
While I was making merry by myself,
he was imagining how to end it.