Inspired by Alex Dimitrov’s incredible poem, “Love,” I wrote this. Write one, too? Or even just a few lines?
I love rye toast at diners.
I love finishing a book.
I love being cold alone in a bed at the moment when he slips in and spoons me, his body warm with residual motion.
I love my neighbor’s comedic timing. I love watching her make my other neighbors laugh.
I love when 2-year-olds say things they don’t fully understand, but get the rhythm and tone of adult communication perfect.
I love sinking a 3-pointer.
I love walking beside honest, smart women.
I love eavesdropping on my daughter’s imaginary world.
I love the first swig of Racer 5 from a glass bottle.
I love the smells of lilac, eucalyptus, coffee, and basil.
I love finishing leftovers. Nothing wasted.
I love when I feel like there is so little time left—it all matters. I love when I feel like there is so much time left—none of it matters.
I love listening to people saying something vulnerable and true to a group of other people listening.
I love how insignificant Redwoods make me feel.
I love my mother’s cowgirl boots and oxtail soup. I love her garden art.
I love when the subway finally pulls into the station at 3am. Relief.
I love how boundaried cats are.
I love reading to children. I love the questions they ask when I’m reading to them.
I love chickpeas.
I love being alone.
I love freckles and gap-toothed smiles. This is because my best friend in 3rd grade had both.
I love old people’s hands, especially if their knuckles are bulbous like my grandmothers were.
I love Lauryn Hill’s verse on “Ready or Not.”
I love making eye contact with a very pregnant woman and saying with my mind, “You got this!”
I love all the men who have been so loving towards my body.
I love the first and last scene in a movie. I love sitting in the dark watching.
I love Ruffles, cottage cheese, and The Oprah Winfrey Show circa 1996.
I love wrestling with my daughter.
I love noticing something with a stranger.
I love asking questions.
I love giving toasts.
I love treating money like energy rather than an object.
I love the river, how it obliterates time.
I love being of use.
I love only one pair of earrings.
I love having friends outside of my generation.
I love the feeling of a well-organized drawer.
I love my brother’s exuberance, the scar on his finger, the boys he is raising.
I love a hot bagel, iced coffee, the newspaper, and a blanket in Prospect Park.
I love not quite understanding, wanting to.
I love when people surprise you by changing.
I love when I surprise myself by changing.
I love giving up sometimes, the lightness of that.
I love fireplaces.
I love cemeteries.
I love nursing babies.
I love reading in silence in a room with other people reading in silence.
I love Bonnie Raitt and Patty Griffin.
I love nurses and teachers.
I love the euphoria after a headache.
I love collage and street photography. Romare Bearden. Sally Mann.
I love introducing people.
I love keeping the main thing the main thing.
I love when my baby says, “For real?”
I love when my dad says, “Is that right?”
I love many people who have died and some who are yet to be born.
I love that.