IF IT HAPPENS, IT HAPPENS LIKE THIS:Ā
when i am thirty-three and finally hitting my stride and high-school-me is a young girl i have long since absolved and sent to bedĀ Ā Ā Ā and when iāve come to adore the quiet iāve built in the evenings while the families sit at their tables and i dip brushes into paints Ā Ā Ā and when iāve perfected the task of summarizing my life in a way that does not make people feel sorry for meĀ Ā Ā Ā and when i have quit thinking about it at all, even in flimsy, fleeting fantasies,Ā thatās when Love arrives.Ā Love is a moppy anachronism with one muddy shoe wedged in the doorframe at eleven-thirty p.m. on a weeknight, about ninety thousand hours since the last time i even thought to set a place for it at the table Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā and asks me through crooked teeth whatās for dinnerĀ Ā Ā Ā and i tell Love that dinner has come and gone and that iāve been making single-serving meals for the lastĀ ten years anyway because i am self-actualized and contentĀ Ā Ā Ā and Love asks me whatās for dinner,Ā Ā Ā and i forgive Love for tracking mud across the carpet i had finally remembered to vacuumĀ Ā and i forgive Love for arriving with watery eyes and an empty belly and without calling ahead Ā Ā Ā because there are leftovers packed away in the fridge and blankets folded up in the hall closetĀ Ā Ā and i forgive Love for arriving messyĀ Ā Ā Ā and i forgive Love for arriving late and i forgive Love for arriving Ā Ā Ā because Love arrived.
