his and hers william henderson
For the best, probably. While our daughter multiplied inside, Holly and I divided our lives into his and hers. I got the furniture and the books; she got most of the artwork and her parents. My mother refuses to cooperate with this his and hers division. A fault line separates love between always and never, my mother says. She loves Holly and always will. I agree with mom. Loved is not the past tense of love because love has no past tense. As Hollyâ€™s belly extended, then distended, I was getting used to a new apartment. I had moved out. She had asked me to, and I saw no reason to stay. Or I saw several reasons, but her request was reason enough to go. We were friends, then best friends; lovers, then married. We grew together, grew apart, grew a family, still growing a family. We slept like oppositefacing parenthesis under separate blankets. Avery slept between us, once we had an Avery to sleep between us. She and I met so that our children could be born. Maybe one will cure cancer and the other will win a Nobel Prize. Or three generations from now, one will assume the Presidency. She and I met so that he and I could meet so that I could be honest. With myself. With her. With you. Aurora, our daughter, was born on a Tuesday. Avery, our son, had been born on a Sunday. And on a Wednesday, sitting on a purple couch, separated by a middle cushion, I told Holly I had been having an affair, and she told me I would have to move out. ps
illiam Henderson lives in Boston where he is often tooling around with his children, Avery and Aurora; musing about love and writing and parenting on his blog (hendersonhouseofcards.wordpre ss.com); tweeting (@avesdad); practicing yoga; and waiting for his ever-after ending. He has published nonfiction in Annalemma Magazine, Sea Giraffe, Zouch Magazine, Specter Literary Magazine, Revolution House, and Xenith, among others. Also, NAP Literary Magazine will publish Hendersonâ€™s first chapbook in January 2012. You can reach Henderson at email@example.com.