When I was younger, I thought love was hesitation.
Was constant airplane brace position, impact anticipation, miles above mountains yet already imagining the charred stench of flesh and aluminum. Was fear of flight. Thought love was crisis prevention, apocalypse preparation, stocking up on non-perishables for the end of time. Thought love was choosing words with the precision of a night shift surgeon. Knowing how much I love you, but still flipping through thesaurus pages to find the most beautiful words to mean it. Thought it was carefulness. Neurosis. Biting tongue to hold back from spilling too much. Because I love you, and I can’t lose this. Every day I feel sicker and sicker imagining all of the lives we are not living. But I love you. I love you. I will always hesitate.
I am older now. I have realized. So much of love is blind risk. We can’t live in bomb shelters forever. We can’t hunch over for so long we forget to gaze out through the glass, to chase constellations and fireflies and wild dogs running through afternoon sprinklers. We can’t keep surviving on the nutrition of fear. There is no substance in hiding. There is no joy in loving by the rules.
Because love is trusting the possibility of tragedy. The inevitable end. Is running the red light anyway, because I don’t want to miss a single thing. Is pouring in the milk without triple-checking the expiration date. Is mixing it in, and in, and in.
Love is handing you the car key, believing you’ll come back home.