Isn't love a bit like parenting? Especially a love like ours; a relationship that came into the world without really knowing of its own existence. That could not tell, not in words for the longest time, what exactly was its place and function—it simply was. And it was in that newborn joy of exploration and discovery that it shone ever more. The way it was nurtured, the many falls and skinned shins, the many tears, the yearning for something that wasn't explicable in any language, and the quick appeasement in putting our heads down, holding each other, in peace, together.
These days, I wonder about you. Every little thing makes me pause. I've cooked this meal; maybe he would like it. Maybe he would remember, for example, the way he learnt to cook alongside me. The encouragement and sidelong support that went both ways, not only one. I'm not sure if it is too late to say this now.
But there were things that were thought impossible, but I believed and then so did he. Maybe, like his greatest relished dish, this belief would also come to be. I don't know how to mourn this loss—is there even a proper way?
I have no appetite these days. Yet I am almost perpetually hungry. But I can't eat. I pause at each morsel, wondering what you're eating, if you're eating, what you're cooking, if you are. Instead, I reward myself with something more than my usual ration on the rare days I hear your voice. It's not what you want to hear. It's not what you want to know. But this is how it is, and I can't help it—maybe not more than you can.
But even as it's a child, love, it too is a parent. This love held me up when I wasn't too steady on my feet. It drove me to places that I didn't think I had the effort to go. It stood on the sidelines and cheered me on, motivating me to keep running even when I was hurting so much inside.
The way I am hurting now—angrily, anguished, forlorn, hopeful. And starved.
These days, I wonder about you. Every little thing makes me pause. I've cooked this meal; maybe he would like it. Maybe he would remember, for example, the way he learnt to cook alongside me. The encouragement and sidelong support that went both ways, not only one. I'm not sure if it is too late to say this now.
But there were things that were thought impossible, but I believed and then so did he. Maybe, like his greatest relished dish, this belief would also come to be. I don't know how to mourn this loss—is there even a proper way?
I have no appetite these days. Yet I am almost perpetually hungry. But I can't eat. I pause at each morsel, wondering what you're eating, if you're eating, what you're cooking, if you are. Instead, I reward myself with something more than my usual ration on the rare days I hear your voice. It's not what you want to hear. It's not what you want to know. But this is how it is, and I can't help it—maybe not more than you can.
But even as it's a child, love, it too is a parent. This love held me up when I wasn't too steady on my feet. It drove me to places that I didn't think I had the effort to go. It stood on the sidelines and cheered me on, motivating me to keep running even when I was hurting so much inside.
The way I am hurting now—angrily, anguished, forlorn, hopeful. And starved.
