i. Here we are on this eve of the great feast day of love. That’s right, tomorrow is that day of celebration, of wine, roses, and amorous candle-lit evenings. "Oh, my; how bawdy," you might be saying. "Come on, we're all adults here," I might reply.
I feel as though I should pen a word or two here, some sort of romantic ode to Amber that compares her eyes to emerald isles rising from the Carribian, or her teeth to the shorn sheep that have come up from the washing, each with its twin and none of them missing. (What a grand Solomonic compliment, eh?). I suppose, though, that love is not so much declared to the lover by public penmanship as much as by quiet and gentle acts of service and devotion.
I wish I were less loud.
I’ve had the distinct dis-privilege to see more than a few marriages fall apart in my day, and I’ll tell you, each time it was painful. There are circumstances beyond our control, and there’s never any telling which marriages will be shot full of lead, and which will be bullet proof, is there? Sometimes I think that Amber and I are lucky; we’re still standing.
Is it more than luck, though? Perhaps it’s fortuitous, or spiritual, or good ju-ju?
Amber married a liar of a man, and maybe I married a liar of a woman, too. But in the end, we’ve always been honest about our lies, and I suppose that’s been the magic that’s kept us together. Yes, I reckon old Jimmy was right--there is healing in confession.
There are some glues that dissolve over time, but others that bind harder. Elmer’s school glue, for instance, has earned one heck of a reputation for binding shiny-happy glitter to construction paper, but its reputation for long-term adhesion is lack-luster. Wood glue, on the other hand, is utilitarian stuff, but it creates a long-lasting molecular bond between the fibers of two pieces of wood.
The moral of the story, I suppose, is to avoid putting your love together with Elmer's school glue and glitter. It might sparkle-baby-sparkle, but at some point that glitter is going to flake off all over your carpet.
Perhaps that is an idiotic metaphor.
I’m writing these thoughts about love on the thirteenth of February, which some might consider ill-advised, much like opening a business on the thirteenth block of main street, or sending your lover thirteen yellow carnations for Valentine's day. I don’t believe in numerology, though. And besides, we’ve never called the receipt of thirteen glazed donuts from the good folks at Rick’s Bakery bad luck. No, we call it a “baker’s dozen,” and smile at our good fortune.
I married a good gal, who’s beautiful to boot. We’ve got some days left together. I’m supposed to say “God willing,” on that last statement, but in this instance—and in this instance only—I’m adopting a bit more of an actualized outlook. You can call it prosperity theology, or The Secret, if you want. I’m just going to call it hope.