An Exaggeration of my Heart
Most things in life posses uncertain qualities, such as the weather, what I will wear next week on Monday, colors: its blue no its purple. But of one thing I am absolutely positive. That love stays the same.
He glances at her first. Her books lying in a scattered procession across the small surface of her desk, and her honey colored hair flips in all directions, a result of the afternoon rainstorm. Despite her appearance, her expression displays a state contentment. Sometimes the porcelain skin that washes over the surface of her face and hides the years in which she possesses gives that impression, but her eyes look happy. She catches his glance immediately, like she waits for the attention, and smiles. Twenty-eight years later and whenever my father glances at my mother the same honest smile radiates across her perfect skin. They remain trapped caught in a timeless romantic love. The real fighting, dancing, laughing, until death do us part love.
The living room begins to darken as the autumn sun set behind the hill in our backyard. I hear her before I see her. “Nothing new,” I say to myself. But I am wrong. The information hits me as I realize the affect this burden will cast on her. She just sits and cries. Her salty tears will only make the situation worse, but in that moment I only think, why could it not me? Give me the burden, because my pain matters less than hers. My own skin suddenly shouts at me. I reached up to feel the white porcaline I inherit from my mother. The texture sickens me. Such a trivial thing, acne, but to my sister the end of her world crashes in and around her. This remains the greatest love I will give and this love proves the most honest thing I will ever feel.
I felt myself gasping for breath in between each of my sobs. I do not even remember how the fight got initiated, but we both go at each other with every last fiber of our beings. She never cries in front of me, but I can always tell the exact moment in which the tears would start flowing. We enter the last lines of fire. One more comment. One more incoherent phrase from each of us. The last thing I stated with every passion of anger inside of me, “What must I do to gain your unattainable acceptance?” She replies, “Absolutely nothing.” Right then I realized the importance of not only loving, but accepting and being loved. This day I discover a mother’s love and I will carry that with me the rest of my life.
The most real thing or idea that I come to believe in my eighteen years, five months, and twelve short days of life has and forever will be love. Something once told me that people cling so closely to love, because it is the closest thing we can associate with magic. Love remains the only real thing that never betrays me. I see its affection spilling out to all the ends of the earth. And even though every cell in my body cringes when I hear people talk of its nature in such a hollow and trivial way, I would rather them talk of love in this way, then to change the subject to some earthly and unattainable desire.
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