“Where thou art, that is home.” – Emily Dickinson
In my younger years I thought love was like the feeling of skinny dipping in a natural spring in the heat of summertime, feeling goose bumps and tingling all at once.
I thought love was stealing away in the middle of a night to kiss underneath a full moon and revel in the succulence of desire.
I was convinced that flying away into a Parisian sunset, being held under the Eiffel Tower, and reading love sonnets put to paper to chase a fleeting moment into an eternal space, was love definitive.
Quite sure that love was about belly laughter and being so absorbed in the deliciousness of another that time stood still, I found love to be so fleeting.
I chased, running backwards, those youthful springs, searched for those Parisian sunsets that sank into the nighttime stars. I was so sure love was these things that flutter by as if on the wings of a sparrow.
As the years passed and my body aged, my heart began to settle. Now I am learning that love is not these momentary ecstasies.
Love is the face of the one person who has seen those dark undersides of ourselves we hide away from the sunlight, and still remains.
Love is the hand that touches our skin and loves the scars time put there, the grooves and the creases of a life well lived.
Love is the one who stays, even when we run away.
Love is the feeling that “where art thou, that is home.”
I am finally home.