How do people stay true to each other? When I think of my parents all those years in the unmade bed of their marriage, not ever longing for anything else â€” or: no, they must have longed; there must have been flickerings, stray desires, nights she turned from him, sleepless, and wept, nights he rose silently, smoked in the dark, nights that nest of breath and tangled limbs must have seemed not enough. But it was. Or they just held on. A gift, perhaps, I've tossed out, having been always too willing to fly to the next love, the next and the next, certain nothing was really mine, certain nothing would ever last. So faith hits me late, if at all; faith that this latest love won't end, or ends in the shapeless sleep of death. But faith is hard. When he turns his back to me now, I think: disappear. I think: not what I want. I think of my mother lying awake in those arms that could crush her. That could have. Did not.