Sometimes I wonder if I’ll end up like my parents.
Married to a person without the whisper of a touch, without a suggestion of a kiss, without an ounce of affection.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s what love is like.
Doomed to misunderstanding after decades of time spent together, crossed wires, a tangled mess. Tugging too hard on either end and not tugging at all.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I’m afraid to love.
Commitment to a forever of tolerance, of caring (but is this love), of holding it all in. That’s all I’ve seen, that’s all I know and it’s nothing like the movies.
Love looks like a mutual bond over children, like being considerate, like doing what you must because you promised you would stay forever.
I thought love was happiness and hope, of silent gestures and every-moment-is-too-short. I thought marriage meant happily ever after, a spiritual connection, a way to laughter.
But the evidence tells me otherwise as I watch my parents dance around each other, toes barely touching, hands barely holding. I can’t tell if they are smiling.