the history of love

We fought so much in the beginning. That first Valentine’s Day we were together I was insecure, needing more reassurance than you knew how to give, so unwilling to risk my heart that I gave you nothing while you gave me flowers and a card that said you would always love me.

I saved that card. I have it still.

Sometimes in my distress and mistrust, desperate to provoke a fight, I’d reach for the last unforgivable sign from you that you did not love me, and threaten to pull down the whole edifice of our life. I’d say we ought to divorce without meaning it, or wanting it, and then freeze in terror if you appeared to be considering it as an option.

Your love cracked me open, tamed and disarmed me.

You went to work on the island, became a building contractor so I could stay home and nurse our baby. You came back to me tired, covered in dust.

I kissed you anyway. Your mouth tasted the same.

 When I looked up flights to Tahiti and then remembered we couldn’t afford them,

I loved you anyway.

The only things we were ever certain of were our child and each other. The only constant was this holy crucible where we joined, me around you inside me.

Last night Richard unearthed a box of all the Valentines I’ve given him over the years. The ones I bought, and the ones I made when our daughter was young, red construction paper, stickers, glitter and glue, a picture of our family pasted inside.  A stack of cards like a flip book of a heart slowly opening. Is this safe? What if he abandons me? Or dies like my father did when I was a child? What if what if what if giving way over time to gratitude and awe that such good fortune could befall us.

We have aged, been softened by illness, by loss and by heartbreak; we have grown wise enough to know that love that endures is worth cradling with both hands.

I’m still scrappy and hot tempered but I’ve mellowed with time. My scars have taught me that everything done without love will wound and disappoint me, and I have whispered a promise to spirit that I will not walk that road again.

This is the history of love written in cards, on the sand, on post-its and lipstick on the mirror. This is the story of choosing love over fear, and the sweet relief of surrender.

______________________________________________________________________________________

This is an excerpt from my book The Ripening: Essays on Love, Loss, Marriage and Aging available on Amazon.