
The bottom of everything is love.
That's what I thought to myself while she cried, while I cried, while we argued about everything without ever touching the real thing. That her heart was hurting from an old wound. That she was counting on me and I was counting on her and that we had let each other down when it mattered the very most.
We won't talk about this again. Ever. Can we agree on that?
I shrug. Sure. Whatever. We can talk or not talk but the truth is it is still here, this sadness, this fierce love, this beautiful tension between what we hope for and the way it is.
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The bottom of everything is grief.
That's what I thought to myself when he smiled, when he had tried to explain over Thanksgiving dinner how they met in Beijing without making her sound too much like a mail-order bride. It's wasn't like that at all, his eyes told me, but there was no need to explain. He had found her, and something in his heart instantly mended. I could see it all over her face.
How old do you think they are? Fatou asked, motioning to our guests--the man and his not-a-mail-order-bride, the lovely Chinese woman in the fantastic red jacket.
I have no idea, I told her. But they have that kind of happiness that comes from understanding what it means to be sad. The kind of gratitude that comes after thinking for so long you would always be alone.
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These are the stories I think about later, looking at the shots of everyone's hands and that red jacket, shining in every picture.
These are the stories I think about when I want to get to the bottom of everything, when I wonder if grief will wreck us, when I wonder if love can truly be more than enough, when I want to know what it is exactly that will make our souls whole.

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Congratulations to Kristina of Meadowlark Days for winning yesterday's giveaway--artwork by Amy Ruppel. Lucky lady.