Thursday, April 3, 2014
He has said to me "You are my greatest love." To which I replied, "And your biggest challenge."
I'm no easy wife. I'm moody, I like things just so, and happy is not my default disposition. I also don't cook much. But still, he comes to me with this love.
It's a quiet love, but a tenacious and insistent love.
An imperfect and hopeful love.
A hard-fought love.
A sincere love.
Our third date was in January. It was early on enough that everything or nothing was still altogether possible.
He was driving us in his car. We were going south on Lake Shore Drive and to the left was Lake Michigan. It was night and the sky and water were both black and blended into one another like the darkest ink. To the right was Chicago, all lit up, sparkling, promising us all the things. We drove down in between them.
He let his hand rest just above my knee. I thought this was very forward as it was only on our third date but, after a moment of not being sure, I decided that I liked it there, so I let it stay. We drove down that way. I was wearing a short black dress. It was from Target, but it was nice.
Now we have this home filled with guitars and books and art and food, and there is even a little girl who lives in one of the rooms. Life is so surprising sometimes.
Sometimes the air is tense when we are dissatisfied or angry or when we are trying too hard to wring too much from life, and two sensitive artist-types make for exquisite tension, let me tell you. But when everything eases again, there is still this irrational love.
This love that cooks the meals and wants to know did I like it.
That wakes up early and takes me to work when its cold.
That leaves me alone when I need to be left alone.
That insists on us when I won't.
That waits for me.
This determined love that rises above all subterfuge, this love that when I ask why do you love me, there is no answer, there is only that love's existence, there is only that it is such.