Lately we talk about love and marriage often, and Eldest Sis would remind me that love isn’t insurance.
Because I am young yet wounded, I would always respond that to me love isn’t enough, period. Because she is wiser and learned, she would opt for silence because though no words were spoken, scarred sentiments were not overlooked.
Tonight, as an afterthought to our discussion about the recent uprise – trend – of marrying young – early twenties, before quarter-century – in our society, she said, “If I think about myself when I was 22, 23 … whenever I pass by married couples with kids whatnot – I never wanted their lives. Not those. It’s a natural transition, I think; it’s only after I reached a certain age that I thought, maybe I want those for myself now. Maybe it’s okay to start considering them.”
“I don’t want it,” I responded immediately, almost forcefully. “I don’t want it.”
Sometimes I want to admit to her that I want to be hopeful – but fear is painfully palpable that it feels like a second skin. I want to remind her of myself six months ago, a sobbing wreck at the main family table …but I don’t. Because I think she knows; she just doesn’t have answers to my woe. Because I am young yet wounded, I want to tell her that I just don’t know how anyone does it – give themselves away, romantically, in hopes of a future together. Hopeful. Because she is wiser and learned, she would tell me what I do not want to but need to hear, that one does not need to love something to live it.
“Because love isn’t insurance for anything,” she’d conclude.
We’d walk in silence, side-by-side, saying nothing more because all that needed to be said has been conveyed.