proclamation

So imagine a simple proclamation, either at the top of the lungs, or in the most quiet whisper of how this love, this one, is the one that will be written about, about which poems will yearn to grasp the depth of, of which songs and concertos and operas have attempted and will always attempt to capture. Every story is a love story - and sometimes another person is involved. This story does involve two people. No one is very sure just how exactly the proclamation was first issued. Maybe it was in a whisper with such conviction that it felt like a yell. Maybe it was a roar spoken with such overwhelming truth the ears could only comprehend it as a murmur.

There is no disagreement of how the proclamation was withdrawn. It was a hopeless sigh, with tears and utter sorrow that came not so much in his words, but from somewhere so profound it came from everything in the room, channeled through his voice.

"...there will be no stories about this. This love never existed. No one will ever remember something that never existed." He said this to her at the end of a long day. Of a long year. At the time of day when darkness has snuck up in the late afternoon and no lights have been turned on yet. The golden hour they call it in the movies. Those last few moments before the sun has completely set, where there's light in the sky, but it gives no light, at least not through windows. It was in that moment that the proclamation was withdrawn.

Weeping, inside and out, she wanted to disagree with him. She wanted to give him his hope back, wrapped in protective bubblewrap, ensuring the safety of such a fragile gift. Then she dismissed that picture in her mind because it wasn't supposed to be so fragile. If it were truth, and if she was going to give him what he was trying to break, it would have to be able to withstand this attempt and all future attempts to dismiss it. "No, you don't get to do this," she said. "You don't get to just take it all away as if it never existed. This love does exist, and you're hurting. I hurt you. And it is still here. Look at me. This is what it looks like, love looks like you've been hit by a truck and have been saved from the depths of hell and it maybe looks like something you never want to see again. This is exactly what they'll know of love, because this is historic, momentous, heart-wrenching, faithful, hopeful love." Then, quietly, and because he wasn't paying attention, or more because he wasn't looking at her, "And there is nothing and everything special about us. About this. About what is happening right now. Do you think you're the only one that has ever given like this? Do you think you're a hero? Let me tell you this, everyone is living a heroic life. Everyone is living love that is epic. Everyone. That's how I know this is real. That's how I know it exists and always will. I love you. It's just a technicality that I didn't know that until right this moment. And maybe we'll grow old together, and make babies and die in each other's arms, and maybe this will be the last time we're ever on the same continent, but that doesn't take away this right now. And someone will always be yearning to know and feel this moment of love."

"Someone, some many, will write stories of this love. Of us. Of our love. And if it's just a thought of the most perfect love, if that's the thought in someone's head, it will be our spirits called forth, summoned to the call. Do you hear me? It will be us."

And thus, the proclamation, was returned to the proclaimer, fully and completely. And hope returned in the same flash as the lights she turned on in the living room.

There is something about a kiss, through tears, through relief, through restoration, that is sweet in the tenderest way.