She asked me “So, do you think he loves you more or do you love him more?”
As we get older, we not only discover things about our parents that we’ve never known before or can even imagine, but we are capable of comprehending the depth of it all. Our parents starts to reveal more about themselves to us. Their history, their youths, their dreams and aspirations. I think as our parent’s children, we have this rooted perception that our parents are, well, just simply our parents. Nothing more. Nothing less. It’s really hard to imagine that they were once just like us. Young. Lost. Free. They too felt love, sorrow, heartbreak, and fear. And though they may still feel these emotions now, they do a really good job of hiding it to protect us. Because they are our parents and must remain strong.
On one hand, this realization is an eye-opener and on the other, it truly is a burden. I think everybody feel me on this one when I say that growing up, particularly during those teenage years, it just seems like the parents just don’t understand us. But I’m starting to wonder if maybe, we just don’t understand them. We get so caught up in our day to day living and our own personal dreams and desires that we fail to recognize what human struggles our parents have gone through. What dreams they’ve sacrificed, what failures and disappointment they’ve experienced, what fear they have, what secrets they hold. It’s a whole load of information to process and a lot of emotion to deal with…
But dammit, why can’t they just leave him be?…my little heart is feeling troubled tonight.
Don’t you worry, don’t you worry child. See, heaven’s got a plan for you. :)
This one time I painted a living room with a girl.
This was a handful of years back. It was about eight months before the huge, flame-out of a breakup. That day, though? That day we painted the living room? It was pretty uneventful. We painted my parents living room for $50 between us and a pizza. That was it. I think we watched Anchorman or something after that.
But it still holds as on of the most indelible memories I have. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not still in love, it happened, it was good, it ended, and we’ve both moved on. But I’ll never forget that day. Because it’s never, in the long run, about the grand gestures. You can fly across the world and show up on her doorstep with a rose in your teeth and a ring in a little velvet box but I can guarantee you that - more often than not - she’s going to remember the time you built the birdhouse in the back yard, or what have you, a whole lot more.
Life wasn’t meant to be taken in large movements. The next day will inevitably arrive, you’ll sleep, and the moment will have passed. But when you have a hundred thousand small moments, you can step back and appreciate the picture a lot more than metaphorically blowing your load on some grand moment that, in all honesty, look, you’re not Bruce Fucking Springsteen, you’re not going to be able to blow everyone’s mind every single night. You’re not Romeo and/or Juliet. There’s no reason to drink the poison together in some flame-out gesture. So that leaves us with the small stuff. It’s all about the detail.
That’s what love is. Attention to detail.
And the moment will end. And then things will get boring. And it might get a little quiet. And it might all end horribly. And you might hate eachother at the end. And you might walk away from eachother one day and never speak again. But that’s just how it goes.
But she’ll remember the time you held the door open for her on your first date.
She’ll remember the time you laughed at her impression of the landlady.
She’ll remember the time you stayed up all night that first time.
She’ll remember the small things a lot longer than the big ones.
But everything ends. And I’ll tell you why you have to make the small things, the small moments count so much more:
One day, probably a while longer from now, when old age takes ahold of someone, she might just only remember your smile. Everything you ever did together, every second, every moment, every beat, every morning spent in bed, every evening spent together on the sofa, all of that - gone. Everything you ever did will be reduced to the head of a pin. She won’t remember your name. She’ll just remember your smile, and she’ll smile. She won’t know why. It’s a base, gut reaction. But she’ll smile, uncontrollably, and it will come from somewhere so deep as to know that you touched her on a primal, honest, and true level that no scientist, scholar, or savant could ever begin to explain. There is no more. There is nothing else. There is just this: She’ll remember your smile, and she’ll smile.
And you know what? That’s all that really matters in the end.
I need someone to talk to…the one person who I want to go to isn’t there anymore.