I’ve been thinking a lot about love. I get it in spades from my children, feel the hugs from my friends, the occasional purr from my cats. But what’s missing, what’s really missing, is that sun-drenched, wind swept romantic love. I don’t think about it when I’m packing up lunches, enforcing bedtimes, and extolling the virtues of flossing. It’s when all is quiet, I’m by myself and the kids are at their dad’s house, that the feeling creeps up. It wafts in under the door where the weatherstripping is ripped. It hangs over the shower door with my underthings from the wash that nobody will see. It hisses along with my tea kettle, “You are alone, hissssssss, and no one lovessssss you.”
Will I ever find that romantic love I dream of? Does it even exist? After my divorce, my heart felt hard and small and dried up. At times it even physically hurt. While the worst is behind me now, I still can’t quite see into the future for the light of love. I want to believe it exists and will be there for me. I read about love in loads of novels, but is it just the author’s wishful thinking as well? It’s called fiction, after all.
When I was a girl, I imagined it would happen like in The Brady Bunch. I would be walking down the school hall with a pile of books, and so would he. We would bang into each other, books spilling everywhere. When we looked up to gather our things, our eyes would meet… our hearts would pound… Love! Romance! I have carried this fantasy with me to middle age. Perhaps the real reason why I went back to school to get my masters in Library Science is the pile of books!