My Dearest Love

Our love is intense

I knew you were helpless without me

crying crying and crying.

I was the one who fed you, clothed you and held you during those long long nights.

My body began to give out.

This past twenty plus months, you have cried again.  All four of you cried.  I heard your sobs from the Left Coast and I came running.  There was no question.  You were in hot water and you were unable to get yourself out.  So I came.  So I stayed.

I feel the same wear and tear on my body again; this time, quadrupled.  The love is so much deeper; I doubt I can describe it.  How does anyone describe their need for their own breath, the need for the heart to beat even if it is no mine and the need for succor in this cruel world of war, strife and floods?

Life is so very tumultuous; we  people are tossed to and fro like pecans dropping from large canopied trees in autumn.  We are pelted and become missiles into our lives and others.  You are just beginning to learn your journey of life is already half over.  You faltered for love.  You thought, like I do, love would carry you through.  It did not and you still had me. What will happen next time?  Will you be more careful, less willing to give yourself to love with abandonment?  The only love where this is possible is ours.  In other relationships, if we lose ourselves in love, we will indeed lose.  There may not be a mother’s hand to grasp and pull you back from the edge of all you know.

Along with the poet’s words:  love is kind, patient, etc. I want to add:  love is fleeting like a shadow of an elm tree in fall, love is maddening like a man lost in a crowd with a knife and love is greedy asking for too much like a child whose ice cream cone has melted and she wants her mother to go to the store and get her another one.  The store will be there; the mother may not be.

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