…is a woman who takes care of her dying husband with a smile on her face, soothing him, cradling him, and dignifying him as he faces the hardest thing he’s ever had to endure.
…is a man who beckons his daughter to him and asks her to deliver the following message to his wife. “Tell your mother I love her.”
I used to wonder whether my parents loved each other. Except the blueprint I was holding up to compare with their relationship was celluloid love, the silly kind in movies that end too happily.
Real love is pain, cancer, stress, no money, four children, hospitals, bills, laughter, and dancing to “Red, Red Wine” in the living room with your wife and four young children. That’s love. Imperfect, beautiful, heartwrenching, and surprising.
If I can only but brush up against that kind of love, I will know what it all means. Until then, I’ve seen it.