I know it’s not really the answer you’re looking for Ginger,

but if the Buddha knew what he was talking about and Mother

Teresa had it right, then I think it’s not who or what we love

that holds us like a lover in a long t-shirt in the kitchen each

morning while we’re waiting for our coffee to brew,

but the fact that, lovely or not, we can take stock of where we are

each moment, and that this practice enacts a kind of compassion

and friendship that lays the groundwork for what might be a truer

more eternal kind of love. It’s true I’m not sure who or what I’m

supposed to love these days, Ginger, you included sometimes,

and I know this makes me not just unromantic, but less concrete

to you, because you can’t smell my intentions and commitments

when you lie awake in our bed, the bergamot and ginger deodorant

you love me to wear not making any of it more real and permanent,

and yeah, sometimes our making love feels like it’s just a mist that

shows up outside the garage and is gone by the time the sun hits

the birdbath. But sometimes I can hear your fear of losing me

cracking like sticks being walked on in the woods, and I want to tell

you Ginger, it’s in those moments I think you’ve already lost me

and have yet to either realize or be mindful of that. The way I see it

sweetie, when we want from others, we’re really roaming around

ourselves half-delirious, secretly hoping to be moved by a part of

ourselves we won’t see coming, when actually it’s the hoping for

that when it seems pointless to do so that enacts a kind of promise

and generosity, that wraps its legs around us and pulls us in, and I

think it is in this meaninglessness, the idea of there really being an

us to love upon at all, well, I’m sorry but that kind of love seems not

just misguided and inaccurate, but like watching a movie about a movie,

and neither are very good.