He, she or it loves
Love is a million things to a billion people. It can be food in an empty belly in Sudan. The soft touch of a nurse changing a bandage for a soldier. The rustle of pure silk as white as snow coming down a carpeted aisle to a chuppah laden with flowers as a handsome groom awaits his bride. A newborn’s cry or a dog’s sloppy kiss when the door opens after a long day at work.
To me, love is contentment. It’s being satisfied with a person, place, moment in life, warts and all. It’s not something perfect to which I aspire. I accept love in many forms and none are from a storybook. Not my husband’s love. Not my love for my kids. None of it. Fairytales are just that: tales. Allegories, parables, homilies even. They teach us and guide us, and sometimes they fool us. By not expecting and demanding perfect love, I’m able to get through times that are anything but amorous.
Amo ergo sum.
I love, therefore I am.
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