by Terri Kouba
Our campfire burns in the woods. “When beggars die there are no comets seen,” he says, watching sparks weave in between redwood branches before joining the stars.
“The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes,” I reply, quick as him with the next line in a Shakespeare play. It is a game we played, only in the southern corner of Oregon.
“What potions have I drunk of Siren tears?” I ask, gifting him with an easy one.
“Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within.” He squints his eyes and points at my neck. “All is lost. This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me.”
“My fleet hath yielded to the foe,” I say.
“Men, wives and children stare, cry out and run as it were doomsday,” he says. He thrusts a branch yanked from a birch tree into the fire, stirs it and watches the sparks fly.
“Fates, we will know your pleasures: that we shall die, we know; ‘tis but the time and drawing days out, that men stand upon,” I say, gazing at the shadows he casts upon the blueberry bushes behind him. We spend the night outdoors, under twinkling stars, trading Shakespeare quotes.
My husband is a man governed by reason. A rational man who is moved by logic, persuaded by the criteria of validity of inference and demonstration. He calls me his only flight of fancy. I can weep at the drop of a pin, laugh on a dime, and I reason with my heart, not my mind.