Love Is SO Much More Than Butterflies Or Throes Of Passion

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Love Isn't Always Hot
Love

It's waiting in the rain. It's breathing through frustration. It's appreciating grace.

I've been thinking about love a lot while the coffee gets cold in front of me.

It isn't always hot.

It isn't just in wild throes and ragged breath and fingers knotted hand to hand. Love isn't only on twisted sheets, or cramped back seats, or murmurs, sighs and sated sleep.

Love isn't only in initials carved on trees, or a heart drawn with your index finger on a foggy window pane.


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Love is also in soft light shining off of dish soap when you're both too tired to clean. It's in folded laundry, a patched roof, an unclogged drain, and a cup of tea.

Love is in a box of dates you bought, even though they weren't on sale — even though they aren't your taste — or that bottle of White when you like Red, or that tub of chocolate ice cream when you like mint chip. It's banishing walnuts or dairy or eggs or wheat.

It's in the first joke that breaks the churlish silence after you fight until you both are laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

It's waiting in the rain.

It's breathing through frustration.

It's appreciating grace.


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Love is also in insurance forms, in blood tests, in waiting for biopsies, in carrying their passport pictures when you travel together just in case, in filling out taxes, in overdrafts, in getting up to feed the baby, in diaper changes even when it isn't your turn, because taking turns defeats the purpose of these long days and short years spent in it together.

It's also in high fevers and bad coughs when you pick up tissues on the floor and don't say anything because you don't even really notice. It's in taking out the garbage and going to the plant nursery and resting your head on a shoulder strong enough to hold the weight of all your ugly thoughts.

It's knowing when to look away.

It's knowing when to see.

Love is in foot rubs and calls in the middle of the day, in kindness and flexibility and made-up card games.


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It's in who takes you home after your colonoscopy and drives together to the shrink when you aren't speaking to each other.

Love is in the saggy middles where the plot line gets a little stale, not just in that first line — the wonder, shock of knowing someone for that first time, or three times in an afternoon — or pulling over on the side of the road and climbing in the back seat half naked in the coldest winter, the windows steaming over while you move together.

But still, you can draw a heart on that window fogged over with want and heat and breath in the coldest winter, and even when the fog lifts you can still see the outline shimmer if you know how to look for it in the sunshine of an early spring that just might keep you warm forever.

 

This article was originally published at Facebook. Reprinted with permission from the author.

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