MM

Buckle up—

I’m about to compare myself

to another classic historical figure.

I’d apologize, but by now,

you know how I am.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt had a cousin—

Margaret, sometimes called Daisy.

He didn’t share his pain, his fears,

his constant hurt

with anyone—not even Eleanor.

He never told her

how the leg braces burned—

but he told Margaret.

He called her My Margaret,

or MM for short.

She signed her letters YM—Your Margaret.

No one in his cabinet

understood why a cousin

was always on the train,

always in the White House—

but she was.

They planned a cabin

on a hill,

picnics,

a place where she would nurse him

until the end.

I know what you’re thinking:

God—did he fuck his cousin?

Well, probably. But not her.

His wife was a fifth cousin.

Margaret was a friend.

And their friendship—

they called it our grand voyage.

In a world at war,

they were ships

docking in each other’s

safe harbors.

Now—

as I cry,

and tell you all the things

I could never tell my husband—

know this:

You are MY Margaret.

You are the lighthouse.

The harbor.

The life vest keeping me afloat.

Margaret once wrote:

Most friendships begin

with a handshake.

Many never go beyond that.

But we—

our voyage—

went straight

into the deepest depths.

From the start.

Isn't that also us?