So many locks, not enough keys

She was of mesmerizing beauty and a light heart. He was an analytical sort, of a heavy soul. They’d met years ago on a brief encounter and didn’t see each other till many open and closed doors later. Two different and yet much alike beings who were walking on the same road, speeding past each other, missing one another time and time again.

He feared her natural optimism, she disdained his cynicism. But as different as their story lines had been all their lives, no two souls could have matched more perfectly.  Their friendship told that tale.

It wasn’t that they weren’t aware of each other; it was just much easier to pretend that the feelings weren’t there. It was much safer that way at least. To thread through life than actually jump in. They hadn’t always been this way. I mean, they had both had serious relationships in the past. Neither of which ended well. So maybe it was hesitation of being hurt again, but maybe it was just that if nothing ever started, they’d never have to worry about its ending.

SD once wrote that “It’s a lot easier to be lost then found. It’s the reason we are always searching and rarely discovered – So many locks not enough keys.” And maybe it’s true. It’s much easier to drift through life where the only person you have to answer to is yourself. To lock doors, and throw away keys, or chances, in order to protect our hearts.  But if in the process you’ve bolted yourself in so tightly you can’t escape, did you really put pain at bay? Or did you fall on your own sword?

I agree that having a door slammed right in your face can leave you feeling stumped. It takes time to recover. But if we all went through life so painfully aware of just that, we would never sweep our insecurities and hug opportunities ever again.

They both mistakenly thought that being strong meant never letting feelings show. With as much pride as tall as Mt. Everest neither wanted to be the first to give. So though superbly apparent to everyone else how ideal they were for each other they continued being just friends and nothing more. And how could anyone expect to open a door if they’d never even turned the key?

But holding people away from you and denying yourself love, that doesn’t make you strong. If anything it makes you weaker. Because you are doing it out of fear.  And time was passing. Crucial minutes and seconds, each one capable of changing everything. That summer would draw its close, the season would end, and the wind would shift inevitably. Looking back, it seemed like it should have been harder to lose someone, or have them lose you, especially when they were in the same state, only a few towns over.

It’s true, that when turning a key there’s never a guarantee that what’s on the other side of the door will grant you happiness unimagined. No one can guarantee that. But it’s also true that no one ever wins a car on a game show by playing it safe. When it comes to love, you have to all in. Do it right, or don’t do it all. I mean, you might be pleasantly surprised. And that key, well, it was always the one to your heart. 

Great Expectations

When I was about 12 or so, a sneaker company came out with these skating-tennis shoes. Just regular tennis shoes that could turn into skates. They became the rage at the school I went to. And everyone who was anyone had a pair. 

So I of course, begged and begged till I got my pair. They weren't easily given. I had to pick up extra chores, be extra sweet, be super obedient, and look at my dad with puppy eyes many, many times before he even considered getting them for me.  Needless to say that by the time I got them, I was ecstatic; happy that I now too possessed the biggest fashion trend at school.

When the first day of school came after I bought them, I was so blissful, I planned my entrance and a whole outfit around them. That day I got to school, I walked into the cafeteria beaming. But as I prepared to show them off, only one worked. So there I was skidding to a complete stop, quite abruptly, right in front of another kid who had his tray in his hand. I plowed right into him sending his tray straight in the air. I gasped knowing that what goes up must come down. And it did. Right on top of me. A tray full of oatmeal pancakes and gooey syrup toppled on top of me.

Needless to say I was mortified! To make things worse. There was a staff meeting later that week and the shoes were banned from school. So the big investment my parents made in the shoes went to the back of my closet where they were never worn again.

They say the bigger the expectation the bigger the heartache. We paint castles in skies, fold wishes into pockets, and tuck dreams into hearts. We build up the hype in our heads up so high that it’s hard to swallow the pill of reality. That some things just never work out the way we’d want them to.

Maybe you put all your eggs in one basket. Maybe you trusted or gave far more of yourself in a friendship and came out empty handed. Maybe the relationship you were in didn't pan out the way you thought it would. We do it all the time. We gamble more than we can afford to lose. But even if that’s the case, who’s to say it’s completely a bad thing?

I agree, there’s no getting around the gradations of grief you go through when facing a loss. Of course it’s disappointing. But people recover from disappointment; otherwise we’d all be hanging from nooses.

There’s something to say about the fearless optimism of a child. I find more and more, not only with myself, but those around me that as we age it is sadly a dwindling trait. It’s by far more easy to be a Cynic. But Cynicism isn't a safety net, it’s a crutch!

A way to rationalize with ourselves why we can’t, why we won’t, take chances. Not to say that yours isn't valid, just simply that it is a corrosive way of thinking. You’re not putting the world at bay. You’re fencing yourself in. You’re narrowing your perception. You’re, frankly, giving up on yourself.

Not every endeavor leads to a tray of heaping, dripping food upon your body. Not every venture ends up in a total messy disaster. And though going in you’re never sure of that, you've got to try. Because what defines you isn't how many times you crashed, but the number of times you got back up. As long as it’s one more; you’re all good. J

The dead of winter, the light in spring

I drove home in a gray afternoon. It’d been a long day at work, the kind that keeps you so busy that you haven’t a minute to think about a single thing. Frantic, with deadlines, and people pulling you a million directions. Needless to say I was drained, and utterly exhausted.

I pulled up to the driveway, and shut the car off. As much as I wanted warmth, I didn’t hurriedly dash for the front door. Instead, I looked out of my passenger window and saw my dad gardening in the front yard. It was his favorite thing to do. And he was so good at it. His green thumb made everything flourish in effortless beauty. I loved that about him.

I hadn’t noticed how depressing our yard looked. This winter had been so bitterly cold it had taken hostage most of the plants. But brown and wilting as they were, my dad kneeled beside them adding fertilizer and water. He was also attaching pieces of tarp to his beloved rose bushes, shielding them from the winter frost. I thought it was monotonous, but he kept on, paying no mind to the bone-chilling wind and the 32 degree weather that afternoon. After all it was his garden, and if he didn’t do it no one else would.

I went inside swiftly only yelling out a “hi dad” before shutting the front door close. I went directly to my room, threw my things on a chair, sat on the corner of my bed, and laid back head first. I closed my eyes. Thoughts were swirling in my head. But all I could keep thinking about was how reminiscent of those rose bushes I felt. Long gone the green of the stem and the blooming buds. Instead, they lied crippled, brown, and wilted.

A break up and the end of an era had casted a winter filled with shadows and uncertainty. I couldn’t stop the process much less a rose could stop winter from rolling through. But though accepted and having had closure, my inner self couldn’t but help remain lifeless and wilted. I’d lost my bloom, and at that moment hadn’t the slightest idea of how to recover.

Some things seem menial, as if the task surpasses the ending result in strength and time, and therefore seems wasteful. But they are nonetheless necessary. Some things seem so uncertain, that all hope attached to it seems foolish and imprudent. For the person outside looking in, a brown, wilted rose bush is just that. Wilted. They’d never experienced its spring… when the bloom of the flower made a garden luscious, beaming and radiant.

And yet when March crept up from behind the long buried shadows, and the garden stretched out its arms after its deep slumber, the onlooker would welcome it with joy. Forgotten was the arduous task of keeping alive its roots so that it would bloom again in spring. To the gardener the end result of a tedious winter was worth it. Where someone saw a dead garden, he saw soil, and seed, and life.

I think we too often forget that. In the, at times, excruciating task of mending our hearts we burry our heads so deep into our despair and sorrow that we forget that. Our hearts and our strength seem so shattered they haze our view. And everything seems yellowing, browning, withered.  But in truth, with a little work, and a lot of hope, even the bleakest garden can bloom again. After all isn’t the definition of faith “the evident demonstration of realities that are not seen”?

I lied in bed looking up at my ceiling, 30 minutes had gone by. I stood up and went to my window, and there was my dad still working in the garden. I went into the kitchen and poured him a hot cup of coffee and myself a hot tea. I put on my coat and walked outside to give it to him. I asked him what he was doing, he looked up at me and smiled and he began explaining to me the technicalities. And even though I couldn’t begin to grasp the concept, I nodded.  

Because truth is… in the dead of winter we all need a little nurturing, a little warmth, or even just a hot cup of coffee to keep us going. 

Let it hurt

7:01 in the evening. It’d been one of those days. Those terrible days where it seems like the whole worlds against you and you’re only holding on by a thread. My body ached from head to toe. My mind numb from all the inflicting thoughts that lay in it. My head throbbed as my pounding heart beat unnaturally.

I came home to find the house completely still and empty. I looked into the kitchen, a plate labeled “Dinner” Had been left out on the countertop. And a “PS” added “wash the dish afterwards.” As if I needed reminding. But I wasn’t hungry. So I grabbed the dish and put it in the fridge. Pulled out a bottle of red wine. The one we’d got from the vineyard months ago. After pouring myself a glass, I went into the bathroom. I took out every candle we owned and light them up. I went into the hall and put on an old record. Mile Davis. The melody soothing and calming.

I turned on the hot water. And poured a whole bottle of bath bubbles. I got undressed. And I stepped into the bath. I needed this. I said to myself. I slid slowly down into the water till I was completely underwater. That’s what I wanted to do most of all. That’s what I really needed, to disappear. Deep down into the water till every last bubble of oxygen was gone. Maybe then I’d forget.

All I’d ever wanted was to forget. But even when I thought I had, pieces kept emerging. Like bits of wood floating up to the surface that only hint at the shipwreck below.

And a shipwreck I was. There on a Monday night while the world kept on turning, I submerged my aching body into the deep end of the water. Hoping to stop the pieces that kept emerging from making a whole.

I came up from the water covered in tears. And it hurt. I didn’t mean to fall apart; I didn’t mean to start sobbing, or for my rickety body to tremble from head to toe. But the truth is that, sometimes, the things that we don’t want to happen are exactly the things that we NEED most to take place. And more than a fake smile, a numb spirit, I needed to unravel. Putting off the pain only works for so long. Eventually you’ll walk right into a mirror that will stop you dead on your tracks and make realize you are aching. And the only way around it is to let healing do its work and let it hurt.

We falsely correlate tears with weakness. Admittance of being inflicted is casted as being over emotional. We’d rather mask the surface; put another board over the cracked bottom of our boats, than declare a shipwreck. And we fool ourselves into believing that it works. Until the water seeps in from tiny little cracks you never even noticed where there. Till you’re sinking once more.

Allowing yourself to heal properly is as vital as having a floating device, or a life boat on board. It’s the only thing that will bring you back to shore. That’s not to say that it’s easy or in any way graceful, but it’s necessary. It’s an imperative part of the process.

Its 7:59 in the evening now, the sun has set, and the candles are burning low. Miles Davis is playing on the old record player in the hall. And for the first time in days I am serene. I am at peace. I am at shore.

You can have Manhattan, Cause I can’t have you.

She stood outside for the first time all day. The sun shined brightly enough to remind her it was still fall. But the breeze was fresh enough to whisper that change was coming, and the end of the season was fast approaching.

She embraced herself and sighed melancholically. And a sudden surge of sadness swept her face. She took to her front steps. And stared straight into the sky, a flock of birds, were passing by, nestling on the light poles, it seemed like a swarm of them.

Flying south for the winter – she thought. “How I wish I was you”. She said out loud to no one in particular. But she did. In that moment, wished she too could spread wings and fly as far away from here as she possibly could.

It was strange how binding a location can seem when all you want to do is get away. How the 1,619,090 million people, the 59 square kilometers, with over 100 skyscrapers, all of a sudden can seem like a 4x4, narrow, asphyxiating box.

She envied the migration of the birds, the way that when a location was no longer useful, they could get up and just go, move on to the next. She wanted to get away. She needed to get away. Like if going east or west would up the ante of not feeling what was coming to her.

From an early age we were told that if a flood hits we must head for higher ground. To escape and earthquake, we must walk outside. If a hurricane is announced one must head east or west of it. And if a tornado ever comes to head for shelter. So when your whole life you’ve been told to save face, it’s hard not to think that when a break up occurs you must heath south for winter.

The bustle of the city was deafening, and it seemed every corner she turned held a memory of an ill fated love affair, one she just wanted to put behind her. But it’s hard to let go, when you live in an island. And you can still pin point the location of where half your heart lies.

There was no escaping the run-ins of the past. That same café that was exactly 2 miles from his place. The bar, with the bartender that never got their drink orders right. The reason that they met. The restaurant down two blocks that had his favorite pancakes and her favorite eggs. The deli where the guy behind the counter always called them Mr. And Mrs. M.

The concrete jungle mocked the days of careless laughter, and sweet reverie. It laced the memories, and swept the emotions; it tangled the kisses, and masked the rose colored view. It screamed in her ear that she was overwhelmingly abandoned and her shadow was the only thing faithful friend who stood beside her.

What happens if a bird didn’t leave its home? Eventually its environment would not be nourishing enough for them to make it through the winter. The air would be too cold, and with bare trees they’d eventually run out of food. Inevitability. So even when holding our ground seems like the strongest thing to do, it is inevitably sometimes the thing we not ought to do.

So she packed her bags that mid fall, and headed down south for the winter. She bowed out of the horizon that held its fist around her throat, that held her heart caught in a web, that held her soul knotted in regret. She ventured forward into her future. Let time pass and her wounds heal. And like a bird she found that eventually this season too would pass. That the wind would shift again. And that the trees would bloom again in spring.

Cropping out history

I sat at home flipping through a magazine when I received a text form a friend. I look at my phone to find it’s a picture of her and Superman announcing that they were now in a relationship.

I laughed out loud. She’s so silly.

“If it were only that easy” I replied

“It should be”

“Right”

“Well maybe you can’t crop your way into someone’s heart. But can you crop someone out of your own?” And I knew where she was headed.

Recently she’d suffered an ill fated love affair. The type that leaves you reeling because you gave so much more than you could afford to give.

They’d had a whirlwind romance. The type that usually ends with a white dress and a reception where you vow eternal love for one another. But short from taking that step of asking her to marry him, he developed many doubts. Instead of working through those doubts, he decided he simply didn’t want to be in a relationship with her. She was left in shock. From night to day, he changed his mind, and she, well she had no choice but to respect his decision.

“My heart won’t listen to my mind. I just want to be over him. Why aren’t I over him?”

She was fighting a battle; the realization of loss, the abandonment, the dissolution, and the piling of mixed emotions were asphyxiating her rationality.

What she really wanted was an easy fix to her ever breaking heart. But when it comes to healing, it’s a process. One that requires that pesky little word – Time. Because if it were that easy to just hit crop, narrow the corners of our lives, exclude the unwanted, unnecessary parts of our lives. Would our pictures ever be whole? Without all the pieces, would the puzzle ever really be complete?

They say that if you don’t pay attention to the past you will never understand the future. And maybe it’s true. Maybe in the grand scheme of things it makes us stronger, wiser, and more resilient.

He was a memory that she never wanted to visit again. And I couldn’t blame her. But it wasn’t about him any longer; it was about looking closer at the picture. Zooming in. Realizing that the girl with the red watery eyes, who wore sadness on her shoulders, would come out the other end a better, much stronger person.

See hitting crop too many times doesn’t free us of the unnecessary; it cripples us to a much smaller grasp of things. Because you can crop the person out of the picture, but you can’t crop the memories lived with them. Our lives aren’t self edited still images we post to have someone comment and critique on. Our lives are a running moving, picture, with sound and bloopers.

Bad things are always going to happen in life. You are bound to get hurt. But instead of cowering away from that, that will only mold you, it is necessary to just accept things. Deal with the emotions, and face the issues head on. Realizing that it’s your story and in the end it’s entirely up to you how the ending is written. And if all else fails, well, you can always Photoshop a picture of Superman right next to you. :)

Too late, too gone, too wrong

The following story got related to me by the male protagonist. I for one thought things like this only occurred in movies. So I present to you a story that has no real happily ever after. A story of what closure looks like when we try to out run it.

There she was dressed in white. Radiant and breathtaking. Every bit of her oozed happiness. She looked at him adoringly, held his hand ever so tightly. A smile turned the corners of her mouth every time they caught each other’s eyes. That day, in that room, wedding bells were ringing and a love everlasting was to be sealed.

HE took to the right side of the room. On the very last row. On the very last chair. He watched the woman he loved marry the man She loved.

The vows were exchanged and she expressed her love and happiness. She made promises of forever. Promises HE once heard. Promises HE once made.

And when it came time and the preacher asked if anyone objected, her eyes never wandered. She kept her gaze in front of her, in front of the man she loved. And almost without pause the preacher went on. And someone cleared their throat loudly. And footsteps were heard coming down the aisle. People shifted in their seats. Their glares burning into HIM. And all around the room gasps were exchanged.

“Wait.” He said meekly.

“Speak up son, no one can hear you”

He walked closer to her and said “Wait” one more time.

Her face turned slowly in his direction. And her eyes narrowed. It was hard to remember his face. But it was him.

He felt red, and embarrassed, he knew he was making a spectacle and she hated those. So he cleared his throat once more, gathering up all the courage he had inside him. And he held back the tears. He looked down, almost wanting to run, but then proceeded to look back at her. He took a deep breath and began talking.

“I’m here to tell you that I love you. That I was wrong for ever letting you walk away from my life without a fight. I’ve tried everything to close our story. I’ve read other books, and I’ve ventured into unknown places. I met characters, and I saw many faces. But no plot held me tightly, no dialogue kept me intrigued, no chapter kept me tied. I tried. And I tried to reach some closure. But I didn’t know how many pages you were in it till I tried to close the book. Every time, a page appeared, and it was then I missed you. And I can’t. I can’t write this ending. So please, help me. Tell me I don’t belong here; tell me my words don’t bind a piece of your heart. Or tell me if there is a glimpse of hope that you might still love me. Tell me you love me. Tell me you’ll marry me. Pick me. Choose me. And I promise that happily ever after starts with you and I…”

The room stood completely silent, people on the edge of their chairs. There was a long pause. And no one even dared breathed. You could even hear the birds outside chirping on the near trees.

She looked at HIM. And back at the man she vowed to love forever. She looked down at her ring, and back at HIM. She sighed melancholy, deep from within came the sigh, and it filled her eyes with sadness.

There she was dressed in white, about to marry another man, and he wanted her to tell HIM she loved Him. So she did.

“You’re right” she began, and everyone gasped. And the groom looked stricken. She stepped down and came to him.

“You’re right” she said again.

“I knew it” He began. And she interrupted. “Wait, I’ve heard you. Now you’ve got to hear me.”

And he nodded as she went on. “You’re right, I loved you. I loved you very much. Much more than you deserved. And you took. You took all you could take and begged for even more. And you left me stripped, crumpled on the floor. YOU left the page and you never gave it a decent ending. So stop. Just stop. Because you’re right, we were intertwined in each other’s life, and you forget that means I know you well. So stop this charade. THIS isn’t you wanting to declare you’re undying love. Or you wanting to reconcile something you lost. THIS is the four year old child inside of you and his dire jealousy that someone’s picked up the toy, that he himself deserted. Don’t confuse your conscience for love. This isn’t it. I get it you’re sorry. And I accept you’re apology. But you’re too late. I’m far too gone. And this is far too wrong. I don’t love you anymore. I’ve reconciled with the idea that you were never meant for me. And I moved on. Sometimes all you need is a broken heart to realize that something even better is in front of your eyes waiting to be found. And I found it, in him” she said, looking back, taking the grooms hand. “So please understand when I say this. I choose him; I pick him, because it is him that I love, with whom I belong.”

He looked at her and nodded. That was all he could do. It took him a minute to compose himself. He mumbled an apology to the guests and to who ever heard.

When you can’t save yourself or your heart, it helps to be able to save face. So he did. He turned around. And walked right out of her life for the very last time.

HE picked up Volume 1 of his life and nostalgia had struck. It stirred inside him, made his eyes gleam in remembrance. He combed back through the emotions of how he felt when he read those words for the very first time. And it was enough for him to realize he hated the ending. But by then she was far too gone.

See it is true that the heart isn’t a juice box; you can’t squeeze the life out of it trying to remove all trace. But you can cause enough wreckage and damage to the heart that when it rebuilds itself all traces of that past relationship are put in a more appropriate place. That person becomes just a lesson learned.

For her, he was her past, and as much as he tried to make her his present it was way too late. Because anyone can say that they love someone, but true actions are the actions you take to prove you actually mean it. And he never truly had.

You can’t possibly re-write an ending no matter how many times you re-read a book. Sure, you can take away something new each time, maybe even noticed something you hadn’t before. But the period at the end of the last sentence is the closure of any “What ifs”. An ending is an ending. Maybe he held a longer version than hers. Maybe hers just ended abruptly. But regardless, eventually, they’d get to the same page. And “The End” marked its place.

Love you most

It was the third day of spring. I was sitting in the passenger’s seat talking away the drive. I’d been so long since her and I had been on a night out alone. But there we were, headed to a day of errands, a late dinner and a movie.

We were discussing an upcoming trip to NYC and when it would be best to take it before or after the wedding. And the subject turned to Wedding. I took over the conversation asking her a million questions. I always valued her opinion most of all. She knew me better than most of all. And as the unofficial Mexican Martha Stewart, her opinions truly mattered.

So I spilled over on wedding colors, and decoration likings. Flower arrangements and mental lists of prices. I rambled on about seating arrangements and list of guests. Never noticing that the more I spoke the more she responded less and less. Her mood heavy, a tear was shed. So crazed into my future I’d forgotten my present. It was in that moment she looked at me and said:

“I’ll miss you.”

There was pain in her eyes. I cringed as I watched her clear her throat. She was immediately uncomfortable for that sign of weakness. That was her way. But I heard it, and it meant the world to me. I smiled gathering up the courage.

“So what color?” She asks, concentrating again on the road, not giving me a chance to respond. She narrowed her eyes and gripped the steering wheel harder. And I knew that was my cue to move on. She wasn’t one to show weakness, or emotion, her kind of love was felt in action. Few “I love you’s” ever crossed her lips. So when she said something, it was rare but it was truthful and heartfelt.

Later that night, as she was immersed into the film in front of us, I got lost in her laughter, in her lighthearted way, and in the gleam of her eyes. She was so beautiful. So absolutely enchanting. And I couldn’t help but wonder if she knew how much I loved her.

Growing up we had a huge gap in ages. I was her bratty little sister, clinging to her by order of mom and not her own wish. When the years progressed we were never partners in crime or confidants but we were each other’s most reliable source. She always had my back and I had hers. It was an unwritten law, and unspoken law, but it was law nonetheless.

We were very different. I was a social butterfly who lived on a cloud. And she was a realist who dreamed meekly. And when it came to love, well we, we were very different on that matter too. I was more my father’s child in that way, in love with love. With me you could always tell who I was interested in. Even as a child I had my life planned around what I thought love would grant me. Silly notions and silly thoughts. But she, well she was more reserved.

And even though it was the case, there were a couple suitors. But for some reason or another, most unaware to me she never found the right man. She set high standards for herself and was much more preoccupied with the enlighten of herself than the search of another’s heart. I loved that about her. Society… not so much. We come from a background where Everyone gets married. And Everyone has kids. The definition of what it was to be a woman in my family. But she never let stereotypes get in the way. She was of a strong character, one who made her in my eyes not as weak as I. I’ve always admired her for that.

The years went on and eventually all her girlfriends married one by one. And I finally became of age to gain her as a friend. And where I went she followed. I grew sick in 2008 and she was irrevocably tied to me. She slept on the floor of a hospital for a year showing me how much she loved me. It was such a selfish time I took from my family then. She gave up all her free time to help ease the burden of taking care of me. And she became more than a sister; she was a nurse, almost a second mother. Never nagging for a second putting her life on hold for me.  

Those 5 years took a hard toll on all of us. My condition though eventually became more manageable. Slowly I took the reins back from my family and from her. And slowly I ventured, heart in hand, out into the world again. I found out with all the extra baggage it wasn’t as easy as when I was young and healthy and vibrant. So I gave up on love, and on myself. I concentrated solely on my close friends and family, and the bond between my sister and I grew stronger. It was unspoken, but we knew that we’d grow old together. We began planning our lives again, trips, and goals to reach. And I think she knew I’d never leave her side. It was comforting in a way, to know that you’d always have someone beside you, who you could share the ups and downs of life with for the rest of your days.

In the past couple of months though, love gave me one last blessing, unexpectedly when I let go of the wheel I ended up right where I belonged. And in the shape of a wonderful man I found out there was still one last story left in me. One last enchanting and beautiful future. One that him and I are writing at the time, and will soon seal and sign.

My sister is happy for me, as is the rest of the family. But it wasn’t till she said those words that I realized my happiness was bittersweet for her. And so, for me. Because though my future is bright, and it makes me overjoyed to think about. There’s also the realization that I leave behind a loving home, and a loving sister, friend, and one of the women I hold most dear.

She’ll always be a part of my life. She’ll always hold a much bigger part of my heart than she’ll ever know. But reality is things won’t be the same. They can’t be. I’ll be married at the end of the year and will start a whole new role in my own life. And she, well she’s got her own life to live, places to venture off to and people to love, hold, and cherish. And these years, the years of our early life, they’ll be warm memories to hold in our hearts, to esteem once our hair is gray and our youth is long gone.

It’s finally late in the evening when we are heading back home. I’ve gotten sick over something I ate again, and she’s rushing me home for meds. I climb into bed finally, agonizing in pain. She walks in turns my lamp on. And hands me a cup of tea. She asks if I want her to sleep with me. I decline and tell her to rest. She’s halfway to the doorway wishing me a good night and I finally say…

“I’ll miss you too… I love you”

She looks back and smiles.

“Love you more.”

“Love you most.”