My wife goes out to get milk. It is a beautiful day and I’m pleasantly unsure of what to do with it. I see the book I bought her on our honeymoon, a poetry collection. I lie in a sun spot and open it up.

Inside are notes jotted by somebody else. Not my wife’s writing. The commenter has strong opinions and is very passionate about the imagery. 

I close the book. It is a very horrible time I spend stewing.

I do the only sensible thing. I write back. I explain to the writer that he doesn’t understand Masajo Suzuki and how her life informs these poems. That “firefly”, the way she uses it, is a season word for mid-summer, not autumn.  

Now when I close it, I’m triumphant. A few months later, my wife and I make love for the first time in years. In the moment, I forget anything ever happened. I forgive her. I forgive the commenter. I forgive myself for letting my marriage deteriorate.

Much later, in the depth of night, I open the book again, for pleasure, to crow my victory. Instead, it is dashed. He has written essays in response to me. They are more beautiful than the poetry itself.