Tom, who labored all day in an unheated building while the storm blew and drenched, came home completely exhausted. Then he had to make dinner so I could go to my poetry group meeting. I felt terrible about that, though he never complained. Throughout the session, I could hear him setting the table, chopping vegetables, stirring. I was distracted and disturbed and wishing hard that I was doing those tasks instead of listening to his weary steps.

This is where art cannot save me, or anyone. Clearly, it would have been better to make dinner so that Tom could rest instead of dithering about a poem draft I already knew had problems. True, I did get to listen to other people's good, meaningful work. I did get to experience their personal griefs. I did get to spend time with human beings I like. All that is valuable. But it's not more valuable than making a hot meal for a quiet man who has gotten out of bed before dawn to heave and haul, in wretched chill and damp, all the long day.

So I'm feeling glum this morning--in need of atoning for this error, to him, and to myself. The fact that he doesn't ask or expect me to atone--or even think of my selfishness as an error--is just fuel to my sputtering fire. The other day, I was trying to describe my family role to a friend, and I think it ended up sounding as if I were trapped in some kind of authoritarian housewife vortex. But that's not it at all. I have a peaceful love affair with a man who works too hard. I try to do what I can to ease his home life. I cook and clean and wash. Poems are no way to erase the fearful tiredness in his eyes.