When he first told me he loved me I felt enlightened. We were in my car, parked at the beach, waiting for the sun to start rising. A romantic cliche, watching the sun rise together, but it actually wasn’t even on our list of things to do that night. It wasn’t planned. We didn’t have wine and a blanket to get cozy on. Hell, we didn’t even have jackets we were so unprepared (hence the waiting in the car). It was towards the end of November last year, winter had settled in. Not that winter was ever much in Florida, but on the beach with a breeze it was enough (although I might think differently now).
It was simple though, sweet. He was curled up on the passenger seat, drifting in and out of sleep, reaching up to stroke my cheek or brush my hair or kiss my hand in between. At one point though he just stared at me, and because I’m so fucked up I can’t handle an intense moment I was just about to make some joking comment. He whispered he loved me though before I could say anything, and maybe because he understood that I needed some time to digest that piece of information he let his eyes close again and slid back into a light sleep.
It was beautiful, that I could be loved by someone. I mean, family’s different. We grow up with the preconceived disposition that we love our family, from sister to mother to third cousin twice removed in some cases. We don’t really choose to love our family. It just happens.
They witness you at your worst: my uncle skipping big family dinners because I didn’t want to go. Because I’d rather stay home and brood and cry. Him coming to the apartment and taking my snide comments and my uncalled for yells and insults. Taking them and throwing them away, except for a couple he’d tease me about in later years (when I was no longer as unstable and sensitive). My mom coming home to find me reduced to tears on the couch, but unable to explain why I was crying because I just didn’t know. Her holding me even though I hated to be held. Me letting her hold me because I knew she felt useless otherwise.
They’re with you in the dark: my sister and I using our flash lights to try and communicate after our bedroom doors were closed and bedtime was ten minutes ago. My sister and I standing outside the bowling alley with my dad’s latest girlfriend, telling the cops that we were okay and that things had just gotten out of hand, all the while wiping away tears and staring at the red and blue flashing against the black of the night. Our mom driving two and a half hours to come swooping in for the rescue. My dad double checking that every door and window was locked whenever I visited because he lived in the middle of nowhere and I was still afraid of things coming to eat me alive while I was busy trying to dream.
They raise you… So you love them. You really shouldn’t have a choice in the matter. Not to say you do choose to love your boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever, but you do choose to be with them.
And there he was, telling me he loved me, when there were so many others that wanted his heart.
There he was, choosing to be there with me, when he had so many other places to go and people to see.
That act, that expression of love at even the most insipid of moments… My insecurities just go awash and I can do nothing but revel in the moment. As I did that night, leaving him sleeping in the car while I walked along the beach, knowing that whenever I went back he’d be there waiting for me.
Knowing you’re wanted and loved, feeling it, believing it. What else do we really need out of life?
