He rolled his eyes. “Your love is immature, Miranda.”
Part of me took offense at that, feeling like a middle schooler being lectured about relationships. But the other part screamed at me to listen. Told me he was likely right and if I had a lick of sense, I’d pay attention.
He continued, “Some folks think you either got love, or you don’t. Rose and I found it ain’t that simple. Love grows. Lovestrengthens like a muscle. You give some then give more over time. It ain’t just a feeling. It’s a skill.”
“A skill?” I had never heard it called that before.
“Love is something you practice, child. Something you break your back working for. Leaving will break you. But so will loving. It will hurt you to love patiently. To forgive over and over. To sacrifice.”
A slow smile spread over his face. “But it’d be a crying shame to miss out on the harvest. Once Rose and I figured out love was something we gave each other and not a feeling we had, we became a unit that loved deeply. Not just ourselves, but many.” His eyes misted. “Our harvest was so big, we had plenty to share. My Rose was especially skilled at giving love away. Right deft at it.”
The mental image of a pantry stocked from floor to ceiling with old fashioned Ball jars filled my mind. An abundant harvest. Something real enough, big enough, that many felt its power.
The special things are meant to be given away.
He stood, wobbling for a moment before slowly making his way into the house, using the wall to support his journey inside. “Stay put.”
I silently hoped he wouldn’t bring out another hat. When he returned, he handed me a simple, laminated card.
It was handwritten in beautiful cursive. Flowers and greenery laced the edges. I scanned the words, recognizing the pattern as wedding vows. But they were unique, had a real voice behind them. “Did Rose write these?”
“She did.”
“These are beautiful. She wrote her own vows?”
“Yes.”
“She hardly knew you, Richard, right?”
“Didn’t matter. She knew this was what she wanted to say to her future husband.”
“Wow.”
“She didn’t just say them once. She made that card, said them over and over. When we had a fight, she’d stick them in my lunch bag before I went to work. Fixed us right up every time.”
I puffed a breath. “She sounds unreal.”
“She felt too good to be true more times than not.”
I tapped it against my knuckles, looking away and into our gardens. “Her love was mature, huh?”
“Yes ma’am. It surely was.”
I sighed, a smidge of hopelessness setting in. “I’m not sure I have this in me.”
“You’re stronger than you think.”
I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs under the table. Something new stirred within me. Something warm and fresh. Maybe hope. I asked slowly, unsteady. “I want to try. Where would I even start?”
“Forgiveness. True love doesn’t keep records.”
I nodded. “He’s never asked me to forgive him.”
“Well, the way I see it, you can sit around, watch your life and opportunities pass you by, waiting for the man you love to say a few magic words…or you can just forgive him. You don’t need to be invited. Forgiveness happens in the heart whether someone even realizes they need to be forgiven.”
“Does forgiveness mean I have to forget everything that happened between us?”
“Not at all. Just means you stop punishing him for it. Stop letting your heart hold on.” He tapped his chest as he squinted at me. “I know I’m an old man and my vision is not too good anymore, but from everything I can see, your heart really needs to let go.”
