“Everything hurts. My legs, my back, my ribs.”
I stand at the kitchen sink and watch Cindy open the cabinet, reach for a glass, and wince.
She draws a breath. “I should’ve trained for the race.”
She pours a glass of ice tea, takes a drink, smiles at me, and shuffles away.
In life, the little moments have a way of hiding under the clutter of the big moments.
The way she walks across the kitchen. Like she was walking, not on water this time, but through water. Her arms pumping more than her legs, willing herself to just move forward.
It’s both funny and painful to watch.
And then, if I wasn’t paying attention I would have missed it, pulled a tightness to her lips as she reached for a glass from the cabinet that made me understand that everything hurt inside.
Three days ago she ran the race for me. Because I couldn’t.
She didn’t have to run. But she did. And now she hurts. For me.
Love is often subjected to generalizations and cliches. Love is patient and kind and blind and open door. But cliches don’t make us understand. Cliches don’t make us feel.
The love, the gritty, everyday love I’m writing about, the kind of love we crave when we return home from a long day of work or feel frustrated and defeated when the bigness of life weighs on us, is often found when we open our eyes and really look at the little moments.
The slow steps. The wince. The smile.
Those are the moments we are often careless with. Those are the moments we often lose sight of.