Reset

In my mid-twenties, I had the privilege of taking care of a red-headed, ninety-something, Jewish lady who became the oldest best friend I ever knew. She was sharp and intuitive, all four feet and eleven inches of her. She lived in the long term care facility I worked in for about three years; her limitation was physical. She kept her hair dyed and had the smallest, darkest, most "beady" eyes I had ever seen. She was sassy, and I adored her.

I'd come to work some days holding back tears because love was again slipping through my fingers or overjoyed with the new potential I had recently encumbered, she'd lean back in her chair and ask me to sit. She had my number, and as I would profess my exuberant emotions with my elbows on her over bed table about how this one was so much different than the last because it felt this way or that way and how much I didn't think I could love another like this, she'd smile. And she would let me ramble. She would let me be my twenty-something self with nothing but love in her heart and then tell me a story, the same story, every-time.

Her and her husband were married for most of his life, and he was love of hers. He came down from upstairs one night, grabbed both her hands, looked deeply into her eyes and kissed the tip of every single finger. He told her he loved her and went back to bed. He died that night from some unexpected event. She always told me that story with a conclusion of that is true love. Adoration. The small things. That quiet and steady current. It was not over the top. It was not raw with emotion and energy. It was gentle. "It's not what you think it is, kid" she'd say. I'm hard headed; maybe that's why she told me that story so many times. Then again, maybe it wasn't even about me; maybe she just liked to relive that gentle and quiet current that still flowed beneath her heart between them. Whichever, it was palpable enough that I could feel it, too. It was strong enough to calm my antsy nature and racing mind. Then I'd kiss her cheek and go back to work. I knew her words had truth, even though I couldn't entirely wrap my head around it, then.

I just turned thirty. My three and a half year relationship ended about three months ago because I sent the wrong text message to the wrong person. I had found an interest and connection in someone else, and chose not to honor the boundaries of my relationship. It was intense. I wasn't looking for it, and when it hit me like something bursting out of my gut and into the open, I spun around in my chair with a hushed and knowing, "fuck" as she sat next to me.

It has been four and a half months since that moment, and less than twenty-four hours since I told her I needed a break; we needed a break. I needed some time and space to heal, time to reset. If we were truly going to work long term, I needed to take a break  and only hoped she would understand. I've carried that beautiful and sassy woman's truth of love with me for some time now. Lately I've been asking myself what I believe true love is and what it means to me.