An Old Love

They had both been born in a south Asian country, there they grew up and possibly fell in love, or maybe that was later. However, whether or not they were in love, they were married and something about their love had them adventuring. As soon as they were wed they set off for America leaving behind an old world, old dreams, and their old home. He called this America their honeymoon, and it was the longest honeymoon on record for they had moved there, and bore their first child before they ever returned to their old home.

She snipped at him whenever he’d bring home flowers (it was a waste of money, or at least that’s what she’d tell him as she hid her smile beneath calloused hands), but he knew the way she kissed him on both cheeks before he left for work for an entire week after he had bought them. She so sadly tossed them out after they had wilted, keeping one to press each time between the pages of a book of Leonard Cohen's poetry, as he told her that she kept them alive much longer than he’d ever seen before.

The indignation was much quieter when he brought home chocolates, the grin much brighter, the same whispered, “It’s a waste of money”. She’d make him eat the cordial cherries, “I don’t like them much.”, but really she knew they were his favorite.

She stuck by his side and paved the way with hard-earned cash throughout his schooling and nights he wouldn’t return to bed until 2 am because he was enthralled by some research he was doing. She kept coffee in a pot and food on the table like the old love they were. He worshipped her beauty as an idol he allowed himself even if it was a sin, and waited on her hand and foot through pregnancies, and stuck it out through remodeling project after remodeling project even though he thought their little home was perfect the first time, and the second, and the third. He romanced her with all that he had like the old love that they are.

She raised children and his hopes and everything beautiful. She tore him away from his studies to dance until they were both breathless, standing under the crackling light of barely paid electricity bills. She listened as he said, "We're going to America." and she hid her sobs when she said goodbye to all she'd ever known. She took his hand and never dropped. She wrapped her children in swaddling cloth and moved, each time a new job presented itself to him, each time he swept her off her feet. She cradled his head against her chest on the nights he just couldn't take it anymore.

They bickered endlessly about an endless amount of things; the dishes, the money, the children, the friends, the food, the love. She called her mom about him and how aloof he could be at times. He talked to his father about how she could be so willful it would hurt her and thus those around her.

I was talking to him in the coffee shop today and he was telling me about her (again). This time he was a touch despondent.

“She’s in the hospital and convinced she’s getting better, so she will not rest. It’s a vicious circle. She just needs to rest.”

I gave him sympathy and coffee and he left.

Their love was an old one, but it continues on forever. I am unaware of love dying out; for infatuation is a flame that can be extinguished, but love, once learned, can never be forgotten, only rewritten to a chapter that lies in the back of your mind to only awake every once in a while. Someday I wish to find a love like theirs.