Free Broken People by Scott Hildreth Page B

substance. I pulled the sleeve of my coat back and looked at my watch. I looked back at the store entrance. And I realized. It was there. In the store. My love. My heart. I had misplaced nothing. She had taken it. And with her my love would remain.
    At home, I asked my mother about her love for my father. “How long had you known my father before you knew, truly knew you were in love with him,” I asked.
    “Five minutes, ” she responded. She smiled. As we ate our spaghetti, she continued to talk. Of love. Of relationships, and of being without. Being without a husband. My being without a father. And having a family, by most people’s standards, that was incomplete. I didn’t really yearn to have a father in my life. I understood my mother. I have a father. I yearned to be a father. To be, to my children, what my father could not be for me. Active. Present. Alive. I opened my mouth. My tongue wouldn’t form words. I had so much to say. I took a bite of spaghetti. Time passed. When she stopped speaking, her eyes were wet. She wasn’t crying, but her eyes were full. Full of eighteen years of what someone had taken from her. I smiled and stood. I looked away. I ran my fingers through my hair. As I carried my plate to the sink she raised her hand to her face. Wiping eighteen years of love from her eyes, she spoke, “I love you Marc.”
    “And I love you back, mo ther,” I responded. She smiled.
    Time passed. Britney filled my thoughts. Time, with her, passed at a pace much different than without her. We had been together for two months. When she was away, moments seemed like hours. Hours seemed like days, and days were like months. Together, a two hour evening easily passed in moments. I had not told her that I loved her. I had, through my actions, given every indication of my feelings for her. She had my love. I waited to see what she would do with it.
    My mother ’s love for my father began to make sense. Love that just was. “ There’s love that’s developed ,” she had told me. “And there’s love that just is .”
    “Please explain,” I asked.
    “Well, Marc, I believe that love can be developed . Two people meet. He thinks she is cute. She feels the same way. He asks her out on a date. She accepts. They go on a date, and nothing goes wrong. Because nothing goes wrong, when he asks again, she agrees. They go on a second date. And nothing goes wrong. And then, they go on a third date. And because nothing went wrong, they are now dating . Exclusive. Committed. And, time passes. And, to keep her convinced that he cares for her, and because his family encourages him, he buys her a ring. They are now engaged. And time passes. And they get married in June. Because that’s what everyone does. And then, because it’s what married people do, they have children. And now, they are a family. Because two people met, went on a date, and nothing went wrong.  That, Marc, is love that is developed .”
    Then, s he continued, “Then, there is love that just is. The love that can’t always be explained. The love that, according to those that have it, can’t ever be anything but what it is. Endless. Instead of sitting home and imagining the next ‘girls night out’, you sit at home and anxiously wait for him coming home from work. Because you can’t fathom spending an evening without him. That person doesn’t give you reason to live. That person is your life. Love that just is .”
    “And Marc, when they’re gone, like your father, nothing on or of this earth can ever replace them. Ever. You choke. You try to breathe. You suffer. And time passes. It’s difficult. They provide you with your breath, your heart resides in their chest, and theirs resides in you . They are your heartbeat. And, because your heart dies with them, and you remain, you suffer a life of loving yourself. With a heart inside of you that belongs to someone else, and is incapable of loving others. Because that heart, Marc, loves only