As part of a generation of blacksmiths that bend and shape the concept of love into various (sometimes twisted) forms, I look to my mother for advice. I understand the importance of looking at untouched metal, for it is impossible to shape any metal without first appreciating its untampered state.
Looking at the women in my life, I ponder their experiences constantly. They have all juggled the term “love” on their lips, yet none have convinced me of its sweet taste. In fact, none have recalled it as having been sweet. To them, love was not a euphoric feeling but a term that was either thrown around casually or banned from their vocabulary with such celerity that it made even Voldemort jealous. Love was not a pleasure but a means of survival.
My mother was twenty-three when she first met my father. They met in a hospital in Trinidad when my father delivered the news that her only remaining family member had passed. Her tears fell violently. They fell not only for her dead brother but for herself. She was now alone. Captivated by my mother’s beauty, my father vowed to take care of her. After years of dating, they got married and moved to America.
At first glance their story seems like that of a fairy tale. A damsel? Check. Distress? Check. A knight in shining armor? More like a suave nerd with a heart of gold and good money, but check. I grew up believing that their story was romance to its finest degree, but it wasn’t until recently that I started to question.
When my mother talks of my father, she praises him for being an amazing provider as well as being generous to a fault. Even after the divorce, they would still laugh and talk to each other. They would buy each other birthday gifts and exchange kind words. They have one of the nicest damn divorces I have ever heard of, yet something struck me as peculiar. My mother had never talked about loving my father. In fact, she had never even referred to him as attractive. She would speak of him with warmth and reverence but never love. Has she ever stated that she loved him? Yes. Numerous times. But to me, it appeared as though the sweetness of her love tasted more like water.
To dive more in depth, I will break down the nature of their relationship. My mother grew up in destitution softened by her beauty and piety. She had fair skin and long curly hair, and attended every Sunday Mass. She was the jewel of her small town and was treated with adoration despite her status. My mother had been shrouded in God’s blessings and she knew it. On the other hand, my father grew up in a privileged family and held one of the more elite family names in the village. He was trained from youth to become a doctor and had the support of a hardworking father and diligent mother. He grew up the prince of the slums, enjoying a privileged life yet still scorned nonetheless. He was not the most attractive, nor the tallest, but he was blessed with a big brain and a big heart. God granted him success.
My mother said “I do” because my father was a doctor and could support her. My father said “I do” because my mother was beautiful and could guarantee him beautiful children. Both “loved” each other for their potential to the other. Is that wrong? One would swiftly admonish this behavior and call it a disrespect to “real” marriages. One would shake their head and say that they are making a mockery of love. I was one of these opinionated individuals.
I vowed I would marry for love, but as I grew, love appeared to me as cotton candy. It was something that was flashy and bright. It was something that was sweeter than nectar. It was something that disappeared as suddenly as it was created. When sweetness leaves too quickly, it leaves bitterness behind. I was bitter. I was bitter because I knew I was too young to be bitter.
I currently view love with a curiosity and zeal rendered when seeing an oddity of nature. Love is sweet, bitter, sour, and savory. These flavors add to its depth. Each flavor seasoned with a particular experience. Love is not limited to one person, and it can transcend into other forms. Love is a concept I have witnessed and experienced to some degree. However, numerous forms of love remain misunderstood in my eyes. I am studying love as if I were stargazing on a cloudless night. Love is still under my contemplation, and it may remain there for quite some time.