love in real life

Love, like anything, is relative. Sometimes it's made of hot-house bouquets sent cross-country to your doorstep, or Willoughby wildflowers swept up in a knotted bow. Sometimes it's that chance meeting around a corner that sets your heart doubletime, or those cozy conversations of discovery and connection. Sometimes, I imagine, it sweeps you off your feet.

But today---and most days---it's in the everyday.

This morning I woke up to a taller-than-me little sister and bare feet on a frozen floor. The world was winter-white and sparkling-new. My house was a flurry of pre-school rush and last minute uniform-swapping. I spent an hour with scissors and glue, cut-and-pasting the final flourishes to my neo-Victorian valentines. The roads were clear on my drive out of town, the sky a ski-blue. My grandma made sure I left with chocolates for the second half of my trip; my grandpa called me baby. I cried out of love and a terrible, swelling sadness. One world contains so very much.

At work, girls gossiped over reservations and red roses, smiling at my own night of best friend and chinese takeout. I met A later, still worrying over Love Day words, finally deciding on a simple sentence before slipping my last glittered message into the box. We walked home in golden sunset, hands fisted in pockets and breath cotton in the air. We ate dinner on the floor, backs to the couch. We snuck hot water bottles into the Dollar Theatre, paying for tickets in the last of our silver coins.

Now, I'm sitting at the kitchen table, sink scrubbed clean and dishwasher murmuring behind me, and I am so full. All seems awash in the possibility of living; I feel an overwhelming sense of greatness. My world is warm. My tomorrow is bright. Life is loving, day to day and past to future.

It seems too little, simply to say: thank You.

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