Love Story Series

Sarah Russell and Roy Clariana

 

Sarah Russell and Roy Clariana now

 

Finding Forever on New Year’s Eve
by Sarah Russell

It has been 36 years since my husband, Roy and I met at a bar in Memphis, Tennessee, a second-time-around romance for both of us.

That TGIF afternoon, he had just returned from directing a Peace Corps training in Nepal. A mutual friend pointed him out (OK, I asked her who he was), and she said that he had spent six years in Kenya as a Peace Corps volunteer and trainer.

I had wanted to go to Kenya since I was a little girl, so I paraded over and introduced myself, asking way too many questions of a guy who was clearly jet-lagged.

When I came back to be with my friend, she said, “Maybe you didn’t notice, but I think Roy Clariana just fell in love.” I didn’t admit that I had too.

I was moving back to Denver, after a two-year stint teaching at the University of Memphis, to take a job as Communications Director at the Colorado AIDS Project in the height of the epidemic, and Roy was finishing up his doctorate and applying all over the world for jobs.

We were ready to part after a wonderful year of dating, but the only job offer he got was in Golden, Colorado, a half-hour commute from Denver. We grinned at each other and said, “OK, Chapter 2.” And after 4 years together in Denver, we married.

Roy is a researcher in Educational Cognition, and after five years in Denver and a wonderful year in Oxford, England, courtesy of the educational software company he worked for, he was hired as a professor at Penn State University where we have spent the past 26 years.

I was an editor at the university and honed my real love—sculpting and writing—in my spare time. During those years we spent a semester in beautiful Oulu, Finland, just 150 miles from the Arctic Circle, where Roy had a Fulbright Fellowship. After retirement, we returned to Denver to be with my kids and 9 grandchildren whom we had only seen at Christmas and over summers during our time at Penn State.

I write a poem for Roy every Valentine’s Day. He’s my best friend, my soul mate, my true love and he is the one who encouraged me to write poetry again after a long absence.

The first two poems are about our meeting and wedding and the others, at Sharon’s request, are love poems I wrote to Roy on Valentine’s Day. I’ve sorted through, finding some that are quirky, some funny, some romantic, and some, uh, X-rated. (I left those out.)
 

 

The Wisdom Of Wonderland

         "Alice: How long is forever?

                 White Rabbit: Sometimes just one second."

                                     Lewis Carroll

 You looked like you wondered

if you belonged, like the kid
on a playground without a posse,
or a horse for that matter, nursing
a beer at that bar in Midtown
where we went to shake out
the work week, before the skip
of the weekend. 

You think it was just you who fell
that afternoon, but I knew I was seeing
a lifetime. I just didn't tell you 
because I had to learn to trust first.

                         First published in I lost summer somewhere

 

 

 

Sarah Russell and Roy Clariana say I Do Jan. 31, 1992

 

New Year’s Eve, 1992

 Crystals in the snowflakes,
 luminarias lighting the path
 to our door, Greek tapas
 from my gourmet friend Teri,
 champagne, of course,
 and the perfect carrot cake
 we’d searched a year to find.
 My dress—the first one I tried on,
 ecru with gold threads, perfect!—
 guitar music courtesy of Mike,
 my daughter’s college chum,
 and neighbors, relatives, friends.

 I’d known the minister for 30 years.
 He read from The Velveteen Rabbit,
 the part about becoming Real.
 My daughter read a Marge Piercy poem,
 dogs wandered through, our cat in hiding,
 my sweetheart’s mom not sure the marriage
 was legit with a gay minister presiding.

 By 1 a.m. on New Year’s Day,
 we were licking the last
 of the cream cheese frosting
 from the edge of the platter,
 washing glasses and plates
 still in our wedding finery,
 giddy in our new beginnings.

 

 

 

For my Valentine (2016)

Litany of Love and Rain

I love you as the rain loves dry earth,
seeping into pores, darkening dust,
releasing its ripe scent.  

I love you as leaves drink the dew
and hide their sheen in shadows
'til midday.  

I love you as the dapple on a pond,
as the shiver on the flanks of horses
come to drink.  

I love you as thrumming on a roof,
clatter of windows in the wind,
clouds' tympani and strobe.

I love you as birdsong,
hopeful as April.

    First Published in Medium: Poetry After Dark


 

 For my Valentine (2019)

Call me crazy, but I love folding
your laundry, warm and smelling
of Downy, fresh from the dryer.

 I’m not great at housework.
 No, scratch that.
 I’m terrible at housework.

 But I can fold a T-shirt like it belongs
 on a shelf at The Gap, sort underwear,
 match socks into neat little rolls.
 I like being in charge of throwing away
 the ones with holes in the toes, noticing
 when you’re low on underwear so I can
 make a run to Kohl’s for more. It feels
 like love, this small, simple chore,
 sorting the bits and pieces of you.
 It’s being thankful for sharing your life
 and for you sharing mine.

 

 

 

For my Valentine (2021)

Shall I compare our marriage to a circus?
Ours is not a trapeze act—
me sailing through the air
hoping you’ll be there
(no net),
or a lion tamer/lion duo—
cage and whip vs. claws and fangs.
There’s no tight rope to traverse,
and Eng and Chang
need not apply.
(We like our space.)
But sometimes
there’s cotton candy,
and lots of clowning,
and occasionally
a contortionist act,
though not quite so often
Now that we’re past 70.

            Forthcoming in Emergence, Spring 2025

 

 

 

For my Valentine (2022)

 It's the far end of intimate we share,
 A personal peninsula without words—
 the hand on a knee to say, "Enough,"
 the cozy nudge shoulder to shoulder
 at church and the movies
 like a cat rubbing our shins,
 the one-sided grin to highlight
 the banality of a dinner guest.

 We've honed cues over thirty years
 of marriage, along with the grunts and snores
 and yawns and farts that say we are
 each other's bones and skin.

 You can say you love me a thousand times
 and it doesn't mean as much as a thank you
 for dinner—the warmed-over stew
 from two nights ago.

 That's why I listen for your car in the drive,
 the beat up Honda you won't replace.
 That's why I love you.

 

 

Valentine’s Day (2023)

What can I offer you?
A body past first frost,
a mind slightly ajar,
evenings of Scrabble,
and a clock counting hours.
The 10 o’clock news says
there’ll be snow on Tuesday,
and Ukraine is still under siege.
I’ll make soup tomorrow
to warm you and buy your favorite
chocolate at the store. We’ll laugh
at some inanity in Washington,
be thankful for our hearth in February,
and hope for daffodils in April.

        Forthcoming in Emergence, Spring, 2025