The Hunter in the garden

Shortly before I snapped this photo, I gasped loudly. Not because of the view, which I found beautiful, but because of the cryptic message I’d received a bit earlier. Just there, standing next to U. and listening to the burbling, babbling water, that message had pushed its way forward in my mind, demanding my immediate attention.

We have mail for you, wrote the Hunter, and asked for my new mailing address.

I whipped out my phone.

Are you getting married? Are you sending an invitation?

I’d guessed correctly. Of course.

The conflicting emotions – incredulous, sad, happy, hurt – crashed in all at once. And then there was U. staring at me, reaching out for me, and holding me. It was permission. So I cried.

If my schedule permits, I’ll attend the wedding. (The next days have the start of my six-month coding course and travel with the Boy for his Kur.) It’s not a flippant decision, nor just a brave face. I’m not above feeling hurt over what once was and was once lost. But I don’t want the hurt to make me smaller. I have a generous heart. There’s room for more, I repeat, I repeat. As hokey as it sounds, I want to believe in the enduring power of love.

So I cry. And I inhale. And I give thanks.

Thank you for inviting me.

U. and I walked through the beautiful and cold afternoon at Britzer Garten and talked. I’ve no exclusive claim to heartache, and he’s got his own experiences to share. We commiserate: We people who dare to fall in love sometimes find ourselves falling against a hard, unyielding, and bruising reality. So it helped to talk with none other than Mr. El Hopaness Romtic, and not the least because I’ve fallen madly – and madly is at times an understatement – in love with him.

So we walk. We talk. We kiss. We hold hands. We give thanks. And we hope for us.

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