For one human being to love another human being that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been given to us the ultimate the final problem and proof the work for which all other work is merely preparation.
Lover I dont know. I dont know if she loves me. I dont know if I love her. All I can say is shes the one I think about. All the time. Shes the voice I want to hear. Shes the face I hope to see.
It doesnt have to be on Valentines Day. It doesnt have to be by the time you turn eighteen or thirty-three or fifty-nine. It doesnt have to conform to whatever is usual. It doesnt have to be kismet at once or rhapsody by the third date.It just has to be. In time. In place. In spirit.It just has to be.
Every widow wakes one morning perhaps after years of pure and unwavering grieving to realize she slept a good nights sleep and will be able to eat breakfast and doesnt hear her husbands ghost all the time but only some of the time. Her grief is replaced with a useful sadness. Every parent who loses a child finds a way to laugh again. The timbre begins to fade. The edge dulls. The hurt lessens. Every love is carved from loss. Mine was. Yours is. Your great-great-great-grandchildrens will be. But we learn to live in that love.