He was one of us but different
He met her in Moscow, she was like him, different too.
Her first thought was, “this is my husband“.
It took him somewhat longer to reach the same conclusion, at least five minutes.
It was how he felt. He knew he’d never known this before
They barely spoke, for words would have been unnecessary,
A superfluous excess
An intrusion on the depths of their communication.
He experienced satisfaction, completion,
Parts of the puzzle that were him, that had made no sense before, now fell into place
And parts that he never knew were missing, were present, suddenly, out of nowhere.
It had all been arranged of course,
She had traveled seventeen hours by train and it was on the train that she’d been told he’s already been matched with somebody else.
She wasn’t unconcerned, surrendered,
Such was the depth of her trust in the living God
Who’d made the arrangement.
The goddess had told him some time before that she would find him a wife, a Russian wife.
He’d waited, year by year and he knew
That when the time came,
He would never bring himself to say no to Her. And he didn’t
She’d vaguely thought in vacant mood
That she didn’t want to marry an Englishman,
She thought they smelt of mothballs.
She didn’t understand the difference between English and Irish any more than he understood the difference between Russian, Tatar, Kazak or Azerbaijani
These were the blessings that came their way, joy, satisfaction and bliss. Who would want more?
Not them, not ever.