bookswm

But I wouldn’t recommend doing it the way I did. Holding out hope like that. I wouldn’t recommend it. Perhaps I saw something in him that he wasn’t ready to see. Perhaps it was blind, stupid luck.

He melted, like ice beneath a heat lamp, but he could just as easily have stayed cold. I’m no superhero. I didn’t fix him. I didn’t magically pull him from the depths and bring him back to life. He did that. He decided to love again. I simply waited. I held out hope when I probably could have taken my love elsewhere. Probably could have given more to myself.

There’s no handbook for this stuff. The poets ramble; the gurus get quiet; friends hold you; family prays. You’ve got to do it on your own.

But I wouldn’t recommend doing it my way. Shutting out my brain like that. I wouldn’t recommend it. Even if I did see his soul first and foremost. It was hard and it hurt.

And yes he opened. He opened like a bloom unto the sun. He could just as easily stayed shut. I’m no angel. I didn’t offer redemption. I didn’t carry his battered body to safety. He did that. He decided to try again. I simply loved him. I shut out my brain, listened only to my heart. Nothing else mattered. Perhaps some things should have mattered more.

But there’s no handbook for this stuff. The masses drone on; the singers sing sad songs; children want; babies need. You’ve got to do it on your own.

And I wouldn’t recommend doing it my way.

You’ve gotta have more hope than facts, more rave than reason, more god-forsaken sentiment than self-assured resolve.

It wasn’t easy.

But I didn’t know any other way.

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