I've been told by four different men these three words, "I love you."
The first one to utter those words was too young to really mean them. I was too young to even accept the words. I squashed him the very next day and dumped him the next week. Maybe he did love me, but I had no patience. I knew I had some wild oats that needed to be sown. Love at 16 wasn't part of my grand plan.
The second one meant the words. Although I knew he meant the words, I was not ready to accept it. My rejection wasn't because I had more men to conquer. I simply could not return the depth of his feelings. To pretend with him would have been cruel.
The third person. Did he? I don't know. I prefer to forget that he existed. I never knew a breakup could be ugly. I had heard about it but not lived it. Again, he never existed. That was not me.
There was one other who probably thought he loved me, but he never found the nerve to say it. Not that it mattered. I didn't love him. I liked the idea of him but not the reality.
The last one is my husband. He said it (in a trailer). He meant it. I wanted to say it. I was not yet ready to utter the words, but that fact did not change what was in my heart.
Why am I writing about love? This ridiculous obsession with love? Because love is a many splendoured thing. All we need is love. Love lifts us up where we belong.
Read Chapter 32.