Hearing a country ballad about lost love, I say no, that’s you, that’s not me. I respect your tears and your wailing heart, but I’ve lived a different light.
I’ve lived with one woman, losing and losing, finding and finding again.
We found love in the cold wind of Chicago coming off the lake, back seat of a Chrysler that could barely crawl north.
We found love in a borrowed apartment, though the owner pounded on the door. “I need to check the pot roast!”
We found love winding the hills to the beach at San Gregorio and teriyaki chicken.
We found love despite early morning grits at the border of South Carolina, and roaches the size of frogs, and the craziest days.
We found love after wild successes and debacles in Milwaukee.
And in a basement apartment dodging the steam pipes, cleaning babyshit, surviving the tumor, surviving the bleak tomorrow.
And on I-80 and I-94 and I-15 and the miles between gigs and telling the kids to shut the fuck up and hugging them, the endless all-nighters, the shows, the almost-successes, the flops, the next mornings, the newfound friends.
We found love coming home from the arms of others.
We found love in new ways as our bodies aged.
In giddy oneness.
In grisly boredom.
In laughter and in the bitterest of tears.
Ongoing love is a perpetual finding. You pick it up, it’s warm in your hands, then it dissolves. Nothing sustains.
But it’s ever there for the finding.