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I’ve said “I love you” to three women in a romantic sense. To some, that might seem too many. To others, too few. I’m not sure of that myself, but I know I meant it when I said it to each of them (at least I meant it at some point in our relationships--there were times during the tail end of two of the relationships when the statement was more of a reflex, like flinching when you peripherally see something coming at your head).
Two of the relationships resulted in marriage. And divorce. Just because there is something about that other person that inspires love doesn’t mean there is enough to keep it. The other relationship ended because real life sucks. If I was twenty years younger I probably would have not allowed distance and responsibility prevent me from going to her. But I’m not...so love was conquered by a thousand miles, parenthood, jobs, and the overall suckiness of being an adult.
I’ve been thinking about love recently. And every time I do, the same image pops into my head. Not an image, really. More of a short piece of footage. In it, our hero (that would be me) is walking. It is night. There is a light breeze caught between summer and autumn. Streetlights flicker on Greenwood Avenue as stars struggle to be seen. There is a graveyard I walk by--sometimes it is to my left, sometimes to my right. It is a path I had walked many times in my life (although not in more than 22 years). That is what I walked on and off for about two years either to or from seeing the girl who would be the first woman to whom I declared my love. When we first met we didn’t like each other. Then we did. Then I loved her. She did not love me. I cannot say even now whether she came to love me or whether I just overwhelmed her into submission. She was not a woman I should have loved. I see that now. I saw it nine years ago when I thought that time might make better people of us all, and we dated long distance for roughly sixteen months (which in real time equaled, what, a month or two?).
So why does my mind keep coming back to that film strip of that kid walking past the graveyard? Because that kid was sure. Yeah, that kid was wrong, but he was so sure. He had no doubts about his love. About what his love could do. It was worth the bloody fists against the wall. The nights sighing on the roof. The knowing eyerolls of his friends. And the damnedest thing of all is that if I could go back I don’t know if I would tell that kid he is about to make a big mistake. Or if I would just let him enjoy that moment. And be jealous that he still has it.
Two of the relationships resulted in marriage. And divorce. Just because there is something about that other person that inspires love doesn’t mean there is enough to keep it. The other relationship ended because real life sucks. If I was twenty years younger I probably would have not allowed distance and responsibility prevent me from going to her. But I’m not...so love was conquered by a thousand miles, parenthood, jobs, and the overall suckiness of being an adult.
I’ve been thinking about love recently. And every time I do, the same image pops into my head. Not an image, really. More of a short piece of footage. In it, our hero (that would be me) is walking. It is night. There is a light breeze caught between summer and autumn. Streetlights flicker on Greenwood Avenue as stars struggle to be seen. There is a graveyard I walk by--sometimes it is to my left, sometimes to my right. It is a path I had walked many times in my life (although not in more than 22 years). That is what I walked on and off for about two years either to or from seeing the girl who would be the first woman to whom I declared my love. When we first met we didn’t like each other. Then we did. Then I loved her. She did not love me. I cannot say even now whether she came to love me or whether I just overwhelmed her into submission. She was not a woman I should have loved. I see that now. I saw it nine years ago when I thought that time might make better people of us all, and we dated long distance for roughly sixteen months (which in real time equaled, what, a month or two?).
So why does my mind keep coming back to that film strip of that kid walking past the graveyard? Because that kid was sure. Yeah, that kid was wrong, but he was so sure. He had no doubts about his love. About what his love could do. It was worth the bloody fists against the wall. The nights sighing on the roof. The knowing eyerolls of his friends. And the damnedest thing of all is that if I could go back I don’t know if I would tell that kid he is about to make a big mistake. Or if I would just let him enjoy that moment. And be jealous that he still has it.
