Questions of Cohesion

Marion Agnew

In the other living room chair my husband
(follower of curiosity, seeker of beauty, observer and
writer, holder of hands and hearts) pores over pages
printed from an online encyclopaedia. He looks at me,
awe in his voice: “I never knew this about the Finnish
Civil War. It explains so much of my family.” I smile. His
excitement buys me time. Like a water droplet, our
marriage defies and defends against mundane indignities
(where are the coffee mugs, who’s in this family photo,
when do we leave, when do we leave, when do we
leave), keeping them outside our stronghold, floating on
the surface. I coach him in mug-finding. Tell stories about
photos. Say this afternoon/at 4:00/in ten minutes. Our
fortress requires frankness. He says, “When I forget, tell
me; help keep me here.” Who-he-once-was buttresses
who-he-is-today against who-he-will-become. In the face
of his excitement, do I remind him of his painstaking
research for two novels he wrote and we published about
the Finnish Civil War? The light in his face when he held
his first book? The reviews, the awards? Or do I say, “Tell
me about it!”? How best to clasp tightly, to honour him,
and us? How best to hold his heart, and mine? I inhale.

The Science

Relationships embody many kinds of tension. I focus on surface tension because it’s about cohesion—holding things together. The ‘tension’ of ‘surface tension’ refers to the strong bonds between molecules of a liquid. Liquids maintain their shape through the strength of the molecular bonds above, below, and to each side. Because the molecules at the surface of a liquid don’t have molecules above them, the bond between the molecules beside and below them are stronger, holding the liquid together and blocking objects that would otherwise penetrate. A water droplet, soap bubbles, and a paperclip floating on liquid are examples of surface tension.

The strong bonds between my husband and me keep many realities of his diagnosis from upending our lives. We also believe that the strength of the bonds between his past and present selves will help him maintain a positive sense of himself throughout his illness. Like our marriage, this prose poem is a continuous narrative rooted in the past. I chose the first line break and added space between words to create a sense of fragility between those side-by-side bonds. 

Because surface tension has limits.

The Poet

Marion Agnew has written two books: an essay collection entitled Reverberations: A Daughter’s Meditations on Alzheimer’s; and her debut novel, Making Up the Gods (Latitude 46 Publishing, 2023). Her short stories and essays have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a National Magazine Award. A dual citizen of the US and Canada, she lives and writes in Shuniah, a community on Lake Superior, in Robinson-Superior Treaty Territory. She writes about her husband and their lives only with his consent.

Next poem: Reading Bashō by Shivpreet Singh