Hard Worn Love

Hard Worn Love

There is an intimacy in aging. Not the mad rush to 7 Eleven at midnight grabbing the last box of condoms, clothes waiting to unfold, unravel in a darkened room or rumbling car. Intimacy turns from the blush of a red rose to the simple tasks of caring for a long-made love. A love made from years of journey, from sadness and laughter, from days when the bank account had just enough for a sandwich and nothing more. From ice cream and movies to babies and graduations. An aging love is dirty. Not in a sexual way, but through orifices, secretions, diapers and sheets soiled in urine. Love is the scrambled eggs slightly burned in frustration. It’s the sleepless nights as a loved one wanders, seeking to escape the demented hell of his mind. It’s the loneliness of seeing a partner, once vital, now just a shell of who he was. It’s the stretching of dollars – did they save enough to afford a caregiver for just a little while? No? Then a cup of coffee on the back porch will have to do. The steam fading as she is on guard for movement, missing the moment of calm. It’s the thoughts of suicide, that she can’t do it, that they would both be better off dead. It’s the wish for ending but fear of new beginnings. It’s the tight knot that sewed them together, fragments and stitches fading and unraveling. It’s the tiny moments when she bites her lips, careful to not scream her blood, her misery. And yet she keeps on going, knowing that a timeless love is out of time. That she’ll regret the simple moments when she changed his diaper, annoyed, and then his blank eyes light up in a smile. He reaches for her nipple, naked underneath an old t-shirt, to flick it playfully. A reminder that this once led to 7 Eleven and condom nights. Now separate rooms so she can sleep. She knows the days are numbered until she will be alone. A candle will burn while she dusts off photos, remembering the when. Uncertain if she could ever feel that way again. How could she? Her nails will be cracked, hair frizzy and gray. Her soul will be tired and afraid to love again, to say goodbye again. With this, she remembers today to not take life for granted, to tolerate the smell of feces, the early wake ups of coaxing him to take pills that won’t make him better. Knowing that underneath it all, there was love, there still is love, an intimacy all its own. Written by stars, destiny, ecstasy? Or through careful scrolls of the pen, putting words together on a page, until they tell a story of long made, hard worn, love. The most sacred of them all.