And you don't really notice them, this small colony who, I'm sure if you were to take a peek and check on them, are super friendly and happy to be with you so they smile and wave a lot. They're just, you know, there. Always. You don't question it, the same way you don't question the air or how it's possible you can run further today than you could yesterday or why VH1 always seems to air Best Week Ever at the exact moment you want to see it. You get used to them being there. You feed them (with phone calls and letters and visits and Chipotle and field trips and TV on a Wednesday night) and you tend to them whenever you can- you tuck them in if they've had too much to drink, you lie for them to their boss, you listen, you ask questions, you comfort, you laugh. A happy colony, all in all, one big happy family. You carry them with you and you realize that there's a mini version of you, too, in all of them. I mean, that's love, right? Without the sonnets and the exclamations and the cheesy Adult FM songs.
And then something happens to one of them. They get sick. And suddenly you notice your own stomach doesn't feel so hot. They fall down hard but it's you who's got a hitch in your step. They cry and you feel your own tears start to gather. They prick and you bleed too. You and your poor bleeding heart. They're a mess and now you're a mess too because you're not a doctor, you're not God, you don't have the prescription, or the code, or the magic words but hell, at least if they're stuck in that hole at least you can be there too right? Misery ... company.
And because you're a mess- a bleeding, crying, vomity mess, and because you're lucky enough that other people are carrying YOUR miniature ass around, they start not feeling so hot. And sure, it's all to a lesser degree, but hurt is hurt and other people start feeling it and their people start feeling it and at some point, someone looks around at all the tears and pain and asks, "Is this really worth it?"
And the answer is always yes. Always. Because you might be curled up in your bed, wishing it was over, your insides a twisted jumble and your head too tired to think, but that colony inside is always moving, always working. They're the back-up team, the reserves. They assess the damage, they wipe their own tears for you away, they roll up their sleeves. They fix you in big ways at first. They pull a crank and get you to move your legs, they pry your eyes open, they force you toward the shower. And when it looks like you can manage at least the heavy mechanics, they get out the word to their bigger counterparts. And they show up. They make the phone calls, tell you bad jokes, come over uninvited, send you junk food in the mail, give you a kiss when you're not expecting it, take you to the beach, tell you you're losing too much weight, and tell you what's been happening to make them hurt, so you can listen and nod and feel again. So you can be for them all that they are for you. It seems so little but it's enough.
Yeah, love is weird. And sometimes, like now, it just hurts, a land mine right there in the pit of your stomach, waiting for something, anything to set it off and send the people you love, the ones you carry with you, scattering for cover. To leave you reeling and lost. Again it starts, it starts again. But once you've seen it through and know what it's about, how it works, that you'll be ok- do you ever wonder again, "Is this all really worth it?"
No. Because it always is.
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