I remember the courage it took to bring you home to my mom. It just wasn’t done where I came from. It wasn’t just her I had to answer to, it was the pressure and judgement of an entire organization.
But love is brave. Period.
You slept in my bed. I slept on the couch. You met my “friends”, we held hands and enjoyed our time together until I flew you back home.
Life happened and we were separated. You didn’t wait. And that’s ok. You were dormant before me and realistically how do you quash that once it’s awake. So in my absence you did what was best for you.
So many years later I found you. Pen, paper, stamps, time, the old fashioned way. You called. We spoke.
You admitted something I wish you had the courage to say so long ago. But time and distance and no chance of expectations tends to make people brave. Braver.
You said, “I really wanted to be with you but you were all over the place with different people.” And you were right but you lit up my heart with that truth. You loved me too.
Hours of reminiscing answered so many questions and validated so many feelings. It was real and not a figment of my imagination. You were a beautiful surfing cab driver on an exclusive little island where we did and made many beautiful things.
I wish you were as firm and direct with me back then. Would’ve been a beginning and an end to all others.
Not sure why I’m remembering all of this now but I think it’s about the courage I needed to bring you into a world that was hard for me to even exist in. I guess now I see that I’ve always been a little fearless, in nearly everything of the heart. Kinda cool to see how consistent I’ve been on a road that I thought was erratic and winding. It’s also a high bar to hold others to but it likely will not change. If I would do it for them, they should be as courageous to do it for me.
Against it all, I brought you into my world. I remember laying on that couch, smiling. So damn proud of myself.