(still).

(Photo courtesy of: Marie Gabrielle)


My parents didn't remember under which weeping willow my father proposed to my mother, forty years ago on the Public Garden in Boston.  To prove that he's not a jerk, my dad listed off several of their early dates: to the movies to see The Graduate, dinner at the top of the Prudential Center, a day trip to Cape Cod. 

"Do you remember when you said 'I love you'?" I asked.
"Yeah, three or four times a day," my father replied.
"No, but when?  Where?  The first time?"
"I don't remember."
"Mom?"
She laughed.  "I don't remember, either.  One of those things you think you'll always remember."

I was disheartened.  I remember the proposal like it was yesterday.  The jeans, the red striped shirt, the Styrofoam cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee, the cold sand under our feet because April in Boston is still not beach weather.  I remember the "I love you."  The cold rain, the car, the seafood restaurant in Maine, the kitchen of my parents' longtime friends where I gushed everything to my "Maine Mom."

The first I love you is naive, shimmery, a blue robin eggshell around a whole new life.  Later, it drops like an anchor, rusted, chipped, and suffocating under clusters of barnacles.  It means, "This sucks, but I'm not moving." 

I'm new here.  I'm eager for a life united, and I expect nothing short of forever-ness.  I was surprised that my parents didn't remember their first I love you, but it occurred to me that the first time had probably meant very little over the years.  The first time, it's simply I + love + you.  Nothing in between, crowding the space; nothing before or after, creating conditions; it simply is. 

What may matter more in the long run, more so than the I love you, are the unspokens:

I (still) love you.
I (will) love you (even more) (when this is over).
I (can't believe) (I still) love you (after what you've done).
I (am amazed) (that I'm) love(d) (by) you.
I (don't know why) (you think that I don't) love you.
I (wish you could see) (how much I truly) love you.
I (will always) love you (but we both know) (things have to change).

I imagine that my parents haven't forgotten these moments.  Eggshells shatter if they fall to the ground, but dropping an anchor reveals its strength.  After so many trips in and out of the water, it is nothing to look at - far more people photograph the shiny white ship than the old anchor that keeps it steady.  But the rust, the algae, the grime on the heavy chain and the solid anchor - these prove that the anchor has stood its ground, the still in the I love you that keeps the ship on course. 

I am fascinated by the power of still.  It refers to something unsaid, something perhaps unspeakable.  It means that in the present moment, the anchor is dropped and the ship will stop until the crew is well-rested and the map is consulted. 

It could mean, too, that the ship must veer off course.  The conditions are not changing, the damage to the ship is beyond repair, and the crew no longer agrees.  The anchor is dropped, new plans are made, and in the morning there will be a new course.  But the anchor is a reminder of strength, of countless storms weathered, of lightning and tidal waves and dizzying winds.  The ship has been tested; the anchor has remained firm.  And the anchor will be firm on any course, no matter the captain, no matter the crew. 

I still love you is tremendous hope.  It encourages those of us who are just setting off; it reminds those who have been out at sea for years; it comforts those who are sailing home, the journey over: love is strength, has been strength, will be strength.  An anchor dropped, a hopeful plea or a final reminder, a place to stop and rest for the night.  A moment of forgiveness, a refusal to leave, a welcome home. 

An I love you that begs to be remembered.