A Love Story

My parents and I were sitting around on a hot Sunday afternoon, recovering from the meatloaf, corn casserole, and strawberry lemonade I had made for them. My dad opened the Reader's Digest and placed it in my hands. "Here, since you like poetry. Read it out loud to us." I did.

The Blue Robe, by Wendell Berry

How joyful to be together, alone

as when we first were joined

in our little house by the river

long ago, except that now we know

each other, as we did not then;

and now instead of two stories fumbling

to meet, we belong to one story

that the two, joining, made. And now

we touch each other with the tenderness

of mortals, who know themselves:

how joyful to feel the heart quake

at the sight of a grandmother,

old friend in the morning light,

beautiful in her blue robe!

I looked up, first at my mom. She was blinking rapidly in that way she does when she is trying to hold back tears. And then I looked at my sweet father, who sat across the room, looking at her affectionately. He had tears in his eyes, too. He cries more now than he used to: a blessing that comes with becoming a grandfather, I suppose.

I thought of a picture I have of my parents in their twenties. My mom: stunningly beautiful, slender, and tall, with brilliant blue eyes. My dad: handsome, but perhaps a little less dazzling. I used to look at the photo and wonder how he'd convinced her to marry him, but I have grown up in the presence of their calm, sweet, steady love, and it has been many years since that thought has crossed my mind. I wonder if she knew that she was marrying a man who would adore her so faithfully through all the ups and downs of their story, even after her beautiful youth had transformed into a still more beautiful middle age; he still feels his heart quake at the sight of his old friend.

We took a walk that night in the quiet and cool of the evening. My parents held hands, and I felt happy to be part of their story.