“Marguerite Gachet in the Garden” by Van Gogh

I have always been one to so easily lose myself, to be lured so very far away, in a painting, a song, a window…

In the years of his cussing at me, I would often detach, escape, into this 1890 white-wooden-framed window… Thank you, Vincent.

I was overweight and often wore comfortable, baggy, masculine clothes. He said dresses did not look good on me. My hair was much shorter then. He said I didn’t look good with it longer.

I was trapped in that marriage, I always (erroneously) felt. From the beginning, it seemed. From the very, very hesitant, “I do” when I was six months pregnant. Twenty-four slow years of the same-old cycle (after cycle), same broken record played over and over.

I wanted to be the young lady in the painting. Mostly because she was far away from the cigarette-butt-and-beer-can scented patio. Mostly because I bet she could hear the birds singing. Mostly because I felt the freedom in the breeze that teased her tresses and hem.

When he finally agreed to leave once and for all, he took the painting. I think he knew…

My daughter wanted to get it back for me. Eventually, I asked too. He said no. This past Christmas, my daughter was going to get me a replica. I told her I don’t really want it anymore, that he ruined even that for me.

But then I realized, I didn’t need it anymore. Because I was now her.

Cussing cacophony
chokes me.
Into my secret garden,
I escape;
surrounded by white flowers
and open air,
I inhale both in deeply.
If his bowl were not empty,
the words would not be
so nasty.
A bottle smashes,
but I know I will only be beaten
verbally.
I run farther
into the open fields
until all I can hear
is the birds’ sweet euphony
soothing me.
The lady left behind
is a statue of stone.
Eventually, he will pass
out cold.
I’ll stay out here a while
longer,
tuck behind my ear
a keepsake wildflower,
run
my fingers
over the soft-tipped grasses,
consider staying forever
on the other side of this glass,
but I can’t leave her.
I head back.
Morning rays have again
made their rounds,
but upon the wet pillow,
a petal has
drowned.

But that was then, and this is now.

Thank you, love,
for the continuous cleaning
of the mirrors of my past,
for your endless patience,
for making me every day blush
calling me beautiful and princess,
for being my rain and sun
blooming me into
this miracle of
self-love .

❤️