A kind of love
Greetings, my dear readers;
Today, in the late afternoon, I was at the park, doing my brisk walking. Chomel, the teen girl, was wandering through the path, her curiosity guiding her steps.
The park had a freshly washed look, with the morning rain leaving behind patches of water that dotted the landscape. The scent of damp earth mingled with the crisp, clean air, creating a soothing atmosphere.
As I walked, I noticed the subtle beauty of the park's wet areas. Puddles reflected the sky, creating miniature worlds that shimmered with the fading sunlight.
The grass was still wet, glistening with tiny droplets that clung to each blade. A soft squelch accompanied my footsteps on the path, reminding me of the rain's earlier presence.
I sat on a bench facing the slightly muddy creek. The recent rain had swelled its banks, and the water moved sluggishly, carrying small twigs and leaves on its surface.
The wind was quite thick, making the swaying trees visible in their gentle dance. Their branches rustled and whispered, creating a natural symphony that harmonized with the creek's quiet gurgling.
The park was serene, almost empty, save for a few determined joggers and the occasional dog walker.
As I sat there, observing the tranquil scene, a sense of peace washed over me. The park, in its post-rain glory, felt like a place of renewal.
The muddy creek, the swaying trees, and the lingering puddles all spoke of nature's resilience and the beauty that follows a storm.
It reminded me of life's own cycles of challenges and recovery, a lesson I gratefully absorbed in the quiet company of the late afternoon.
Suddenly, a young man approached and sat on the bench beside me. He was my neighbor from the apartment above mine.
He lit a cigarette, exhaling a huge sigh along with the smoke that blew into the air.
It seemed to me that he wasn't himself.
Not wanting to indulge in someone else's privacy, I kept quiet, maintaining a respectful ignorance.
The stick of cigarette burned down to just a bud. He lit a new one, and silence continued to envelop us.
"Uncle Jay," he finally said, "What if I left my family? What if I divorce her?"
I was confronted with something I had been avoiding participating in for years.
My sigh was even deeper than his.
Dear readers,
As I looked at the troubled young man, memories of my own past struggles surfaced. The pain of separation, the loneliness that followed, and the impact it had on my family.
I felt the weight of his question, knowing that my words could influence his life in profound ways.
What should be my answer?
Should I tell him to stay, to fight for his family, and to seek counseling? Should I share my regrets, the things I wished I had done differently?
Or should I simply listen, providing a shoulder for him to lean on without giving direct advice?
In that moment, I realized that there was no easy answer.
Each person's journey is unique, shaped by their experiences, choices, and circumstances.
I knew I needed to tread carefully, offering compassion without judgment, and understanding without bias.
Dear readers;
How would you respond to someone in such a situation?
The decisions we make in moments of crisis can echo through our lives, affecting not only ourselves but those we love.
Perhaps the best we can do is to offer support, share our own experiences, and let them know that they are not alone in their struggles.
"Joe, I can't give you the answer you're looking for. Honestly, I am not qualified to talk about marriage life. You yourself are fully aware of my broken marriage."
Both of us sighed, like pumping out frustration into the air.
Joe, with his heavy face, red eyes, and shoulders down, clapped his hands on the bench and pulled his head completely down.
Not daring to ask, I continued. "This is not an advice, just a story."
"What is love?
Around this park, if we, while walking, carry along a garbage bag, collecting all the rubbish, doing something that we know the park won't reward us for, yet we keep on cleaning it.
No one is paying us.
Yet, we do it wholeheartedly, sincerely, fully aware of no such rewards.
Why?
Maybe because we love this park so much. The cleanliness makes us feel sheer joy.
Maybe it is a sacred love, giving everything, expecting nothing."
Those words came out without me looking at Joe. It was just like me talking to myself.
"Now, imagine this.
We are holding a tennis ball. We throw it to the floor, ready to catch it back. We throw it to a wall, ready to catch it again.
The harder we throw, the quicker it bounces back for us to catch.
We even predict and anticipate the bouncing angle.
If it is love, we give and expect it to bounce back.
The more we pour, the more we hope to receive.
Maybe it is an investment kind of love."
After those words, I turned my head and glanced at Joe.
A cigarette smoke covered a bit of his face. He leaned back on the bench, eyes looking past the creek. Silent.
"Could there be another kind of love?" I whispered to him gently.
"Try a punching bag.
The one mounted on the wall, waiting to be hit.
Those punches that land on it could be from frustration, ambitions, anger, or mere joking.
Never caring why those punches landed, just accepting them. Never complaining. Never sighing.
If it is love, maybe it is a kind of sacrificial one.
Willing to be cursed over devoting."
Joe remained silent, his eyes distant, lost in thought. The wind continued to sway the trees, and the creek murmured its own stories. In that moment of shared silence, I hoped that my words, though not an answer, might offer him some clarity or solace.
Dear readers,
The story wasn't about right or wrong. To me, it is about WHY we want to love somebody.
Maybe, because I myself do not have the real answer for that big WHY, it has made me a single old man for almost 15 years.
To all married couples, my sincere wish is for you to be able to avoid the kind of investment love.
Being a father, I was supposed to embrace the spirit of the punching bag.
Being a husband, I was supposed to be both, sincerely clean the park and the punching bag.
Love.
The Old Man Em Jay.