I suppose by then I had guessed
that love was not only about happiness,
not only about ease and feeling good.
In fact, it turned out as the newborn boy
continued to cry for month after
inconsolable month, love looked
a lot like misery. It sounded like wailing
through all his waking hours.
It felt like exhaustion. Love looked
like losing a dream. And choosing
to cradle the infant anyway. And soothing
the wailing infant anyway. Love
had little to do with happiness.
And eventually the crying stopped. And
the boy learned to laugh. And to
hug. And to love. And happiness came.
And went. And came. And went. But love,
love stayed. Like a jay that comes
to the feeder and refuses to leave,
even if you don’t put out seed.
Like the freckle that stays on the skin
long after the burn from the sun.
Like the scar on your elbow shaped like a heart
that you got from falling in gravel. How it took
so long to heal. How you pray it never fades.