I am going to mix the art references like a can of V-8, so apologies up front.
Yesterday was Valentine’s Day. I know that for those of us who are caregiving, it’s acquired a new and more shaded meaning.
For me, the romantic love at which Cupid’s arrow signals, has a patina of sadness. It has also developed a deeper shading these last few years.
Of course, strictly speaking, as I care for Burt, our love is no longer a romance. It once was. We were given to PDA on any given corner. (Get a room someone shouted from a passing car. Mind, we were middle aged people, comporting ourselves thusly on a Manhattan street corner. Clearly a fond memory for me.)
Intimacy is different without the palette of physical actions.
Up until recently, we were still publicly affectionate; I made sure to kiss him before I left the house. His hacking cough suggested I should reconsider the habit.
Are there racier, more colorful memories that his touch can bring to mind? Yes. They overlay the present, add the vibrance of what was to what is.
I maintain the publicly verbal displays of affection, repeating “I love you” whenever and with whomever else is in the room.
I love Burt with an intensity I never thought possible.
My color doesn’t alter. I do not blush, cheeks reddening, at my bold declaration.
this is our life 