It has been a long time since I have felt passionate about writing and poetry and all other types of literature that used to make me feel – something. I was looking at my nephews today and it hit me so hard how much I loved them. I loved them so dearly and so deeply. I love them so dearly and deeply.
The love a mother has for her child, a friend for her bestie, a kid for his favorite toy, a fish for her favorite smaller fish; but the last ends up eaten usually.
Love is a blessing, a beautiful melody that is halal to listen to. It is natural and sweet. Although there are thousands of types of love, coming in different forms and sounds; they all end up the same: serenity, condolences, a pat on the beats of the heart and numbness.
I have not tried all tastes of love, and perhaps I have not tasted one of the most necessary ones. However, every time I walk out of my house and see a little boy or a little girl squashing their dads’ hands with their small fingers – and sometimes painful nails – I feel that love; I feel how it runs so deep and I get infected by the happiness their eyes splash as they cross the street or walk to a supermarket.
One cannot identify what love is because love is a lot of things. One, though, can list some of what love is not. Love is not about being perfect and standing next to another perfect person. Love is not about being consumed by the love you give. Love is not about being taken for granted by your friends or family. It is a shared emotion, a safe island for wandering souls. It is a place where one can go for comfort when life has gone too dark. It is a cozy cottage with a fireplace that is burning – making the cold hearts warm.
It is a hot cup of chocolate on a late winter night. It is a cold cone of ice-cream on a 12-pm-summer-afternoon. It is the last leaf of autumn and the first petal of spring. It is what makes life easy when life is hard like coconuts (I would not say hell).
I was at the bank today. I saw a lot of people standing in lines. I imagined every single one of them, me included, when we were children. When our parents were at the banks and we were at home enjoying the new dolls and toys, and nagging about how we want new clothes. I remembered how as children we felt angry when our parents came home toyless and dolless and new-clothesless. I saw tired old men. I saw tired old women. All of them standing in there waiting for their payments. Nothing – nothing in the world could make a person stand in a long line except for love. Except for the beautiful “thank you, mama or dada or grandpa or grandma or auntie or uncle and the list goes on”.
Love makes life easier because it is not restricted, and not limited. Love has been given to us so that we would not have to ride alone, so that we would not have to endure the scars without an internal healing process. We were given love because it is a second chance, and the second wing that allows a baby bird to fly.
It is the only way one can move forward.