ICARUS: FAILING AND FLYING

I guess I sort of look at my marriage as Jack Gilbert looks at Icarus flying in this poem. I got married, and after 33 years, was divorced, and they said: "He failed." A beautiful and wonderful woman to relish each day for thirty three exciting years, two magnificent children, a constellation of dynamic in-laws, four inspiring schools, one crazy hardware store in the Adirondacks--failed? I don't think so. So 1997 was merely the end of a major triumph. And I've had more since.

Failing and Flying by Jack Gilbert Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew. It's the same when love comes to an end, or the marriage fails and people say they knew it was a mistake, that everybody said it would never work. That she was old enough to know better. But anything worth doing is worth doing badly. Like being there by that summer ocean on the other side of the island while love was fading out of her, the stars burning so extravagantly those nights that anyone could tell you they would never last. Every morning she was asleep in my bed like a visitation, the gentleness in her like antelope standing in the dawn mist. Each afternoon I watched her coming back through the hot stony field after swimming, the sea light behind her and the huge sky on the other side of that. Listened to her while we ate lunch. How can they say the marriage failed? Like the people who came back from Provence (when it was Provence) and said it was pretty but the food was greasy. I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.