At the End of the Day, Love is Love

When faced with a world that can be cold and harsh, we all long for a warm protective embrace of another, regardless of gender.

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It’s been a long day, a long week. I have not been my best self lately — with my students, my colleagues, and even myself. The inner critic’s voice seems to be turned to full volume. Looking in the mirror most mornings I am only capable of seeing the imperfections and scars. I am feeling my age as of late. The wrinkles on my face seem deeper, the gray hair more pronounced and out of control. New growths seem to be popping up on my skin, rough patches—barnacles—acquired from many years at life’s turbulent sea. I feel unattractive, undesirable, and to a certain extent, unloveable.

I am standing at the kitchen sink now running a scouring sponge for the fiftieth time across a grease encrusted pan. The soapy water stings my dry chapped hands. I stare blankly out the kitchen window at the landscape, parched of color and detail. The wind sweeps up drifts of snow and scatters flakes in front of my view. They fail to sparkle in the dim gray light. As the snowflakes drift from sight I let out an audible sigh. Though the temperature inside is a comfortable warmth, the chilling wind outside seems to have penetrated through the walls and glass, anchoring itself deep in my bones and joints. I am no longer the idealistic, charismatic, adventurous, sensual person I used to be . . . at least not today.

And then I sense him, not consciously at first, but there is a shift of energy in the room. I first notice the scent of him, soap and deodorant and shampoo. It’s a scent I know now in my DNA. His footsteps are soft upon the tile floor as he walks toward me in stocking feet. The warmth of his body arrives before him, and then I feel his strong muscular arms slip beneath mine and envelope my midsection in a gentle embrace. My hands remain immersed in the sudsy water, but I press my elbows against his arms to tighten his grasp of me.

His warm torso melts into my back. I feel the chill within me begin to thaw. The sandpapery surface of his face caresses the crook of my neck as he rests his stubbled chin upon my shoulder. He leans forward ever so slightly and kisses my cheek. The weight of his body takes on the weight of my world.

I abandon my fruitless task, rinse my hands, and dry them on a dish towel. The light outside has all but faded. Evening has begun to bookcase the day. The curtain is being drawn on the harsh world outside. As I slowly turn, his arms release their grip, as he allows one hand to lace itself in mine.  He leads me silently out of the kitchen and over to the sofa. As he pulls me down upon the cushions, I feel the strength to remain upright drain from me. I sink into the softness and begin to let go of the day.

He starts to lower himself beside me, but then the stillness is pierced by a rising whistling sound emanating from the room we just exited. It takes me a moment to register; it is the whistle on the tea kettle. “When did he light the flame beneath it?” I wonder. He slips away from me, leaving me momentarily in the silence. I can still hear the howling winter wind outside, but it seems distant and no longer intrusive as I let my eyelids seal out the dim glow from the floor lamp beside the sofa.

I don’t hear him return, but I open my eyes as I feel his weight pull me down further into the couch. I notice a cup of my favorite tea steeping on the coffee table. He raises one arm up and around me and pulls me in. My head rests upon his chest. I feel the rise and fall of his breaths. I hear the soothing beat of his heart, a metronome to the music of my life. I notice that the rise and fall of my breaths are now in harmony with his. He tightens his embrace ever so slightly so that his loving warmth envelops me completely. We do not speak. Words are useless here in this moment. They would only add noise to the cacophony that already exists within me.

With each breath I feel the wrinkles and scars smooth. He nuzzles the top of my gray head and breathes in deeply. It is as if he is inhaling all the toxic air I have ingested over the past few days. He kisses my head and a spark reignites in my heart. I am loved. I am desired. I am seen. I am known in this world. My pain and suffering has not been for naught because here is a man beside me that sees and feels all that, and does not turn away, but is rather drawn to it because he knows that suffering as his own. I know that when I am weak he can be strong for me. When I am afraid he will be brave, and if not, we will have each other to hold in the shadows until the light of a new day rises. He will help keep the shameful messages at bay and assist me in turning down the volume of the internal critic.

In his arms I can be the little boy who longs for the mother he lost so long ago and the father who deserted him. I can be the young man lost in a world of conflicting feelings and messages. I can be the grown man trying to live his truth.

In his eyes I am handsome and sexy and masculine and feminine, all at the same time. I can be smart and funny and kind. I am neither old nor young, but simply an embodiment of love received and reflected.

And he knows that I am there for him too, that I see him, that there is nothing I wouldn’t do for him. We share a belief that we are our best selves when we are together. Alone we are just misfit oddballs that don’t quite belong in the binary, normatized world; however, by standing up, and for each other, we become members of very our own movement.

Time is suspended, as time has ceased to exist. The world has ceased to exist. The wind no longer bellows outside. My wintery day has suddenly transformed into a summer evening. The judge and jury in my head have gone mute. There is just the beating of his heart in my ear, a lullaby at the end of a very long day. There is no longer he and I, him and me, his and mine. It is, as the poet Rumi wrote — two souls lying down, the world too full to talk – about ideas, language, and even the phrase “each other,” which doesn’t make any sense anymore.

We rest in the knowledge that things are as they should be, as they were intended to be. How could they help but not be that way?

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Photo: Getty Images