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THE HUSBAND WHO COUNT
<p><br/></p><p>He comes home every evening</p><p>like a general returning from battle.</p><p>Briefcase claps shut.</p><p>Shoes tap a marching rhythm. </p><p><br/></p><p>We greet him at the door,</p><p>and for a moment…</p><p>he is lovely.</p><p>Smiles soft as morning light.</p><p>Voice warm as freshly baked bread.</p><p><br/></p><p>And then</p><p>he remembers the rice.</p><p><br/></p><p>He opens the pantry</p><p>with the precision of an accountant.</p><p>Counts the bags.</p><p>Counts the flour.</p><p>Counts the sugar.</p><p>Even the oil.</p><p><br/></p><p>Every grain accounted for</p><p>as if the walls themselves</p><p>might rise in protest</p><p>if one is missing.</p><p><br/></p><p>If the count is complete,</p><p>he hugs her.</p><p>She melts—</p><p>like snow in the sun,</p><p>like velvet in his arms.</p><p><br/></p><p>But if a bag is missing</p><p>oh, the storm awakens.</p><p>He shouts like a mad man.</p><p>Words tumble like hailstones.</p><p>Accusations swing</p><p>from ceiling to floor.</p><p>Even the cat ducks.</p><p>Even the walls flinch.</p><p><br/></p><p>She whispers to herself,</p><p>“A man may be loving,</p><p>but when stinginess seeps into the heart,</p><p>it hardens like clay in drought.”</p><p><br/></p><p>Aristotle said,</p><p>“Moderation in all things,</p><p>including wealth, is the mark of virtue.”</p><p><br/></p><p>But here…</p><p>moderation left</p><p>the moment he returned from work.</p><p><br/></p><p>Each bag counted.</p><p>Each coin remembered.</p><p>As if generosity were a sin.</p><p><br/></p><p>Seneca said,</p><p>“True wealth is not in what you hoard,</p><p>but in what you give.”</p><p><br/></p><p>And yet…</p><p>he counted.</p><p>And counted.</p><p>And counted.</p><p><br/></p><p>Neighbors thought him kind.</p><p>He brought gifts to festivals.</p><p>Smiled at friends.</p><p><br/></p><p>At home,</p><p>he measured love</p><p>in bags of rice,</p><p>in grains of sugar,</p><p>in how meticulously the pantry aligned.</p><p><br/></p><p>She tried reasoning.</p><p>She tried laughter.</p><p>She tried patience.</p><p><br/></p><p>But stinginess is not tamed</p><p>by kindness alone.</p><p>It is a river</p><p>that refuses to bend</p><p>unless it chooses to flow.</p><p><br/></p><p>And still…</p><p>she loved him.</p><p><br/></p><p>Even as he shouted.</p><p>Even as he fumed.</p><p>Even as the rice trembled</p><p>under his watchful eye.</p><p><br/></p><p>Because love, she discovered,</p><p>is sometimes the quiet acceptance</p><p>that even a generous heart</p><p>can be trapped</p><p>inside a miser’s mind.</p><p><br/></p><p>And on nights when the count was complete,</p><p>he hugged her.</p><p><br/></p><p>And she let the wa</p><p>rmth wash over her</p><p>like rain on thirsty soil,</p><p>knowing that</p><p>even a miser</p><p>can carry love</p><p>in hidden pockets.</p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p>
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