I knew exactly what love looked like- in seventh grade. Even though
I hadn’t met love yet, if love had wandered into my homeroom
I would’ve recognized him at first glance. Love wore a hemp necklace.
I would’ve recognized her at first glance, love wore a tight french
braid. Love played acoustic guitar and knew all
my favorite Beatles songs. Love wasn’t afraid to ride the bus with me.
And I knew, I just must be searching the wrong classrooms, just must be
checking the wrong hallways, she was there, I was sure of it. If only I
could find him.
But when love finally showed up, she had a bow cut. He
wore the same clothes every day for a week. Love hated the bus.
Love didn’t know anything about The Beatles. Instead, every time I try
to kiss love, our teeth got in the way. Love became the reason I lied to
my parents. I’m going to- Ben’s house. Love had terrible rhythm on the
dance floor, but made sure we never missed a slow song. Love waited by
the phone because she knew that if her father picked up it would be:
“Hello? Hello? I guess they hung up.”
And love grew, stretched like a trampoline. Love
changed. Love disappeared, slowly, like baby teeth, losing parts of me I
thought I needed. Love vanished like an amateur magician, and everyone
could see the trapdoor but me. Like a flat tire, there were other places
I planned on going, but my plans didn’t matter. Love stayed away for
years, and when love finally reappeared, I barely recognized him. Love
smelt different now, had darker eyes, a broader back, love came with
freckles I didn’t recognize. New birthmarks, a softer voice. Now there
were new sleeping patterns, new favorite books. Love had songs that
reminded him of someone else, songs love didn’t like to listen to. So
did I.
But we found a park bench that fit us perfectly, we
found jokes that make us laugh. And now, love makes me fresh homemade
chocolate chip cookies. But love will probably finish most of them for a
midnight snack. Love looks great in lingerie but still likes to wear
her retainer. Love is a terrible driver, but a great navigator. Love
knows where she’s going, it just might take her two hours longer than
she planned. Love is messier now, not as simple. Love uses the words
“boobs” in front of my parents. Love chews too loud. Love leaves the cap
off the toothpaste. Love uses smiley faces in her text messages. And
turns out, love shits!
But love also cries. And love will tell you you
are beautiful and mean it, over and over again. You are beautiful. When
you first wake up, “you are beautiful.” When you’ve just been crying,
“you are beautiful.” When you don’t want to hear it, “you are
beautiful.” When you don’t believe it, “you are beautiful.” When nobody
else will tell you, “you are beautiful.” Love still thinks- you are
beautiful. But love is not perfect and will sometimes forget, when you
need to hear it most, you are beautiful, do not forget this.
Love is not who you were expecting, love is not who you
can predict. Maybe love is in New York City, already asleep, and you are
in California, Australia, wide awake. Maybe love is always in the wrong
time zone, maybe love is not ready for you. Maybe you are not ready for love.
Maybe love just isn’t the marrying type. Maybe the next time you see
love is twenty years after the divorce, love is older now, but just as
beautiful as you remembered. Maybe love is only there for a month. Maybe
love is there for every firework, every birthday party, every hospital
visit. Maybe love stays- maybe love can’t. Maybe love shouldn’t.
Love arrives exactly when love is supposed to, and love leaves exactly when love must.
When love arrives, say, “Welcome. Make yourself
comfortable.” If love leaves, ask her to leave the door open behind her.
Turn off the music, listen to the quiet, whisper, “Thank you. Thank you
for stopping by.”
No comments:
Post a Comment