Love's Funeral

I had a discussion this afternoon with my dear, dear officemate. We have such wonderful discussions and I am so very happy we are friends. Sincerely, I think she is probably one of the best people I know. She has such extreme sense of fairness, and I appreciate that. But anyhoo, we were talking about relationships. She has a wonderful marriage to a man that really loves her. It's obvious is that way he speaks about her, in the way he touches her, the way he anticipates her needs, helps her put her coat on. I like him a lot. He's nicest of the nice guys. As we talked about what types of wedding bands I wanted and she would have wanted had he not given her a family heirloom, I decided that I wasn't cut out for romantic love. As much as it is disappointing, it's a relief. I don't think that I am fully capable of being loved in the ways that I expect.

For twenty-five years, I have watched my mother care for my ailing father. My father's stroke incapcitated him. He is aphasic and paralyzed on the right side of his body. He is capable of walking and speaking a very limited number of words. He can sing, though. That was a laugh for my mother, sister, and me. at Christmas, to hear my father sing everything from "All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth" to "Silent Night." He was so very soulful, which is just funny in itself. People can rarely understand how we laugh at the hijnx and mayhem that my father causes because of his "condition." I don't have any other explanation other than we laugh to keep from crying. Aside from that, the shit is just funny. But all this to say, my mother has loved my father, truly. She held true to her marriage vows in ways that I would challenge any potential mate to do on my behalf. My mother has loved my father through his seizures when he urinates and defecates in the bed, through having to clean urine and feces throughout the house, through his surliness, through his decision not to go to rehabilitation, through him hitting her with one very, very stong hand, through chemotherapy and radiation, through surgery to remove parts of his lungs, through a hip replacement, through his messy eating habits, with no help and no reprieve. She loved my sister and me enough to allow us to live our own lives--never expecting us to come back home when we were finished with our education or expecting us to care my father in any significant way. In these twenty-five years, my mother has never had more than a week's vacation from my father. In sum, I don't think she's had more than a half-year's break from him. It is so completely overwhelming to list the obvious ways in which my mother has loved my father, knowing that this isn't the extent of the sacrifices my mother has made for my father.

I don't know whether that's insanity, commitment, or the love of G-d. Whatever it is, I don't think that I would ever be able to find such devotion, patience, and love. I would love to hold out hope and believe it will happen, but those types of folks are so very rare. To this point, my expectations for men have been exceptionally low. And, without fail, they never cease to underperform. To set high expectations is to be cruelly let down while the bastard receives some type of depraved pleasure inflicting and possibly observing my hurt and anguish.

None for me, thank you. I've decided to forego that type of orgiastic buffet.

So, I've more than given up on romantic love. In many ways, I abhor the society that provided me with such a warped fairytale. There aren't any Cinderellas or Sleeping Beauties, or at least any that look like me. I'm not bitter, I just recognize the truth of the situation. Who loves like that--past rhyme and reason, past your own wants and desires, past the easy parts of marriage and togetherness. My officemate and her husband give me hope that it does still occur in the age of fifty-eight hour marriages, rampant affairs, and spousal murders. But, for a black girl like me, I've retired the fairytale, along with plans to become president. I sincerely welcome love--the love of friends, family, and possible children. But the love that fairytales boast, that comes every once in a million blue moons, I put those expectations for that kind of love to rest. Gone are my rose-colored glasses. I've given up, given in, and relinquish its hold on me.

For those of you who have found forever love, hold on to it. Be careful not to suffocate it. Appreciate it everyday. Wrap yourself in it when you are angry, lose yourself in its passion. Be still and wait for it to subsume you when all seems lost. Find it again and again in the eyes of your beloved. Cherish the memories and the possibility of making more. For those of you still looking, find some for me. Be bold and brave. Give into the moment rather than the possibility. Enjoy your life, be well, smile at strangers. Find love where you can and damn the consequences. Do the impossible--love--love for all time, for eternity. Leave no stone unturned and don't walk away from the probability of hurt. Love fully with abandon and without regret. This chance will only come once in a lifetime. Surrender to passion and ride her crest until either you or she ceases to be. Be mindful and seek pleasure. Find joy and hold him in the palm of your hand until he becomes restless. Do this for me.