The Frozen River

by Ariel Lawhon

A woman is never more vulnerable than while in labor. Nor is she ever stronger.

Like all mothers, I have long since mastered the art of nursing joy at one breast and grief at the other.

Memory is a wicked thing that warps and twists. But paper and ink receive the truth without emotion, and they read it back without partiality. That, I believe, is why so few women are taught to read and write. God only knows what they would do with the power of pen and ink at their disposal.

Some things change in thirty-five years of marriage—the silver hair, the softness of my belly, the lines around my eyes—but some things do not, and I am still eager for the warmth of my husband’s touch. I go with him gladly and smile as he blows out the candle.

The legal presumption is that, under such physical duress, a woman cannot lie. Clearly the writers of the law know little about women and nothing about childbirth.

We are in the twilight years of a long love affair, and it has recently occurred to me that a day will come when one of us buries the other. But, I remind myself, that is the happy ending to a story like ours. It is a vow made and kept. Till death do us part. It is the only acceptable outcome to a long and happy marriage, and I am determined not to fear that day, whenever it arrives. I am equally determined to soak up all the days between.

We were lying in bed, not consummating our marriage. And yet it was the most intimate thing I had ever done.

So no, Mrs. Ballard, you might not be pretty, but I’ll be damned if you are not the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” “You are biased.” “I am proud.”

As I rise from the table, it occurs to me that part of what I feel, watching them, is a sense of betrayal. I carried these children into the world, paid their entrance fee with dues rendered upon my own body, and now they no longer need me.

“So you’ll not tell?” “Only my husband. We keep no secrets between us.”