An Excerpt from my WIP.
I remember, early in our relationship, how ecstatic we were just to sleep in the same bed together. To wake up next to each other. A perpetual sleepover. We managed to destroy the kitchen trying to make the simplest of breakfasts. It wasn’t the end product of the breakfast that mattered, but rather feeling the joy creating it together. There was no dread in cleaning up the aftermath. Cleaning was no longer a daunting task when I was able to do it with her. It was about the time spent together, goofing off. Dancing around in our underwear.
Every other Saturday she would wear this obnoxious, over-sized blue t-shirt — it always looked like she was drowning in the sea — and a white bandanna wrapped around her head, much like the way Rosie the Riveter wore hers, just to clean the house. To clean our house. She would stand on the mop as I pushed her around the kitchen — my horrible attempt at woo-ing her. She would start to giggle when I became winded, kiss me on the cheek, and tell me how adorable I was.
They don’t tell you love and marriage aren’t these luxury happily-ever-afters — I would venture to speculate that reasoning is why divorce rates are so prevalent — but rather an institution that will activate every element of unshed grief and unattended fear. It will bring to light each nook and cranny of that fear and those falsified beliefs that have been curated directly from the love culture blueprint. Marriage isn’t this end of the road landmark or this resting place to soak up eternal happiness. And love isn’t perfect. It isn’t a fairytale or storybook. It doesn’t come easily. There are hurdles that need to be jumped, obstacles that need to be cleared. It is facing challenges and working to vanquish them — together.
It is a little word: love. Easy to spell, but onerous to define. It is realizing that every minutes, every second is worth it because you did it together. It is work. But, it is work I would apply for over and over and over again.