Sometimes I'm sad that I don't love men. This is only because I see how the men in my family live and love.
My father loves my mother in the way she loves. In small ways, grand gestures unneeded and rare. He gives her flowers he grabs from the side of the road cause he thinks of her. He deals with 15 animals in the house even though they aren't his, because they make her happy.
My father loves my sibling in the way they understand. He spends time, and learns, and builds alongside them, no words, just companions in the garage and bonding over grease and bad tv shows.
My grandfather loved my grandmother in the way you don't see anymore. He became a believer because she didn't want him to not have anything to hope for. He made her laugh, sometimes with just a look. The two of them were my first memories of true love.
My grandfather loved his kids in the hardass way. He gave them space to find themselves, and never fought it, but neither did he compromise his own self. He would teach them how to do something once, anything they asked, but he pushed them to grow into amazing people.
My father loves me in what ways he can. We talk about girls and music and beliefs, and he lets me talk his ear off about my classes and dreams. He looked at every drawing, listened to every dream, and laughed along with all my bad jokes inspired by him.
My grandfather loved me in a way I won't ever find again. Not only did he listen, he asked to hear every new dream, every half naked idea. He loved me enough to get sobbed at as he saved me from hornets. He loved me in the way I needed to feel safe. I still miss that feeling. Nothing will replace that.
I'll take every one of these examples and give them to the women I'll love, but I can't help but curse that I'll never be loved like that by anyone else. I can't change that I'm gay, but I can mourn that, however strange.
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