Everywhere you turn these days you can find people spouting off about marriage, about what makes a good one and what doesn’t.
Hell, I’ve taking my wild stabs at it too, right here in this very column. But like a lot of things that appear on the internet, when it comes to the opinions of others there is usually a galaxy of hot breath mixed in there with the scraps of useful observation.
Love has always been a pretty popular topic; novels, songs, paintings, all of the best art is steeped in it somehow or another.
And in many ways it is almost easier to process the boundless possibilities that love holds, as well as its potential for great heartache and pain, by allowing ourselves the gift of art with its roundabout way of leading us to our own conclusions rather than, say, following the pied piper-ish tune played by yet another cyber goofball who likes to
lie claim they have some sort of a perfect marriage or an unstoppable love affair while the rest of us mortals are out here getting our asses handed to us by Cupid himself as we spend half our waking moments and no short amount of our dream time trying to figure out what the hell is going on down there in our hearts and our guts on a daily basis.
Yeah, that’s a whole lot of hot breath right there, but now you see what I mean, huh?
I guess what I’m trying to say is that sometimes you can back battleships full of someone else’s words up to your door but still come away as mystified and uncertain about a thing like love as you’ve ever been; I’m saying that real love, the kind that defines a lifetime spent sharing your life with someone else, for better or for worse, that it’s a hard thing to verbalize.
Sometimes though, when I’m out in the world, it suddenly all makes sense somehow.
There I am, crossing some city street or walking around in a park with my kids, chucking bread wads at husky ducks who have lost their wild inhibition, when I’ll suddenly notice a couple that has to be like in their 80′s, I’d say.
Look at that, I hum to myself. Would you just take a look at that…
They stand there taking a breather from their traveling. They are cutting across the the land together, her frail sweatered arm tucked up nice and tightly in his elbow crook as he leans hard left on a cane that just might be holding the both of them up as far as I can tell.
And in that brief moment of living it hits me hard. I am looking at a very long complex story with my own two eyes. Yeah, I will likely never hear their tale, but it doesn’t really matter, because I have a feeling, just by the time-proven osmosis of strangers passing each other on the journey that I get the gist of it all.
They have loved and known high romance. They have kissed on the sunset beach, strolled grand boulevards in the morning rain.
And they have hurt like hell and suffered innumerable loss together. Buried love and drpped real tears on each other’s clothes.
They have shared the highs and they have tramped through the lows.
But here they: are crossing the park, getting some fresh air, arm-in-arm on a cool late winter afternoon… just nailing everything in the end.
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