I have returned.
It was a good vacation, as vacations go.
I have more blog material.
Used my eyes wisely.
Opened my ears.
Kept my mouth shut.
I heard a story while I was on vacation.
About a girl in love with the idea of being in love.
She got married.
To the idea, if not the man.
Brides, I’ve found, expect everything to go swimmingly.
Both parties believe they will be walking hand in hand for the rest of their lives.
In a park.
Turning to gaze at their partner lovingly.
I have a problem with that.
You and I know they are going to fall face first on the pavement.
And I mean no one.
Walks along a smooth paved path in life.
There are bumps.
There are obstacles.
And this girl met the bumps and obstacles.
She should be proud.
She tried to plan a gentle route up and over the bumps.
Tried to tear down the obstacles.
She did everything she could.
Yet now she feels she’s the black sheep.
The one who didn’t do enough.
Didn’t try harder.
Didn’t walk away when he argued, gestured.
Didn’t flinch when he came close to hitting her.
She betrayed no fear when he played with a gun in their living room after a fight.
She held on as long as she could.
Some would say longer than she should.
She fell in love with love.
Love, which is only a thing unless it is attached to a person.
A thing you cannot sustain alone.
But she tried.
That’s what counts, right?
But no one told her.
No one tells most people.
That while there might be a light at the end of the tunnels you must travail.
All you can see in dark times is the pavement in front of you.
Sometimes you have to crouch to see it.
Sometimes all you can do is make your way forward on your belly.
The best you can do is hope.
Hope to find light and space enough to stand up and stretch your weary muscles.
Before you crawl forward again.