A friend of mine is getting married, and she offered me time to read something at her wedding reception. What do you think of this?
What is Love?
Right now, if someone asked you to define love, you’d likely have an explosion of answers. Because right now love is attacking every inch of your being; gingerly exploring and caressing the five senses.
Love is fresh summer watermelon bursting in the mouth. It’s memorable like mango. It’s tart like kiwi. It’s sweet and potent. It’s pralines and pie.
Love is delicate and firm. It’s satin and cashmere. It tingles at touch. It’s his t-shirt you always borrow. It’s your hand through her hair. It’s 600-thread count Egyptian cotton.
Love is homemade bread. It’s sugar cookies on a Saturday night. It’s mountain foliage in the Spring and cultivated earth in the Fall. It’s Thanksgiving and Christmas and Birthday’s 1 through eternity. It’s Café Rio.
Love is whispers. It’s gasp. It’s “you’re welcome” and “thank you”. And “you did the dishes again?” It’s a high-five. It’s lips smacking. It’s teeth grinding. It’s as startling as thunder and as gentle as a sigh. It’s methodic and erratic. It’s a song and an un-tuned instrument. It’s “Love you” and “Miss you” and “Come home soon”.
Love is the note on the fridge, the text just because, the kiss before a nap. It’s her without make-up and him in jammies. It’s candlelit faces. It’s that smile. That touch. That laugh. Those lips.
In the years to follow, your description of love will continue to grow, piling like grains of rice. And you both will have silos full to the brim with ways to describe love. To explain love. To express love.
And one day when you both have more wrinkles than the waiting room of a Botox clinic, someone young and new to love will ask, “What is love?” You’ll have become so accustomed to it, so used to the threads of love woven into your being that the words in reserve will be summarized down to two, and you’ll answer, hoping the young one will grow to understand as you have that: