Semantics.

During my first marriage, I started speaking in the plural. When asked, “How are you?” I would answer:

“We are well.”

“We are struggling.”

“We’re okay.”

And so on.

I might then expand. When my first husband, David, was in grad school, I’d talk about assignments, teachers, grades, projects. Shortly thereafter, when he was sick, I’d talk about treatments, hospitals, surgeries, symptoms, doctors—evidence to support my assessment. Yes, we are doing great; David got a 4.0 last semester. Yes, we are not well, because David refused the cardiac chair this morning.

It’s what made my second husband, Paul, stand out from the others. He asked, “How are you?” and I replied with how we were doing—what David had or had not done that day.

“No,” he said. “I’m asking about you. I don’t care how David is doing. How are you doing?”

I just sobbed.

I didn’t know.

But I knew it was not good.

Now you might think David is some terrible guy who made me so enmeshed in his life. He did have a propensity for it, but I can’t blame him fully. Something about me—maybe for the first few months or years—we are separate entities. But eventually, inevitably, irrevocably, I will merge with whomever is closest.

It’s not all bad.

But it’s not all good either.

I suppose my life’s challenge is to find a balance between me and others—a faint line in the sand, a tiny membrane that shows where I begin and they end.

Recently, I started to message someone, “We have COVID,” but changed it to, “Paul and I have COVID.”

I know it's just semantics.

It’s not much.

But it’s something.

Were not wars started and ended by words?

Is the Declaration of Independence anything more than words on a page?

What are we if not the words we say?

I am me and he is him.