Our Love

Love. Epic and quiet. Silent and triumphant. Forever. Not because you wanted it; accidental. No arbitrary date, no atonement for an act of abandon or response to an apology – not a facile request. Love now and forever. Not because it has always been so, nor because it always must be so. Not inevitable like an act of God or nature. Not without risk. Not without peril. Not without reward.

Not without both of us.


Our love. As it has always been. Since the first moment you asked. Since the first moment that we knew this was – that this was to be – that this was to be forever. Not because it has to be; but only because it would be; and now it must be – because it is. Perfect and true because it is flawed and broken. Chipped and re-glued and chipped again as something unique forms, something one of a kind: priceless. Nature – forces grander and more powerful. Great names spoken on lips in fear and frustration. Not our names – we will never be great. Not ordinary, not necessarily – at least our love is not. But not powerful like a song, like a poem, like a tide or an earthquake; fragile – love is so fragile. They don’t tell you that; those who say it is eternal and true are only half right. Because it is also delicate and frightening and so so fleeting. Glorious moments buried in the dark depths.

Our perfect love. Not because it was ordained – but because it was built. Stone, by stone and stone again until a great edifice jagged and artisanal reaches high. A tower, new and timeless – impurities burned in the fire of the ordinary – of the day to day – of the humdrum. They don’t tell you that either; don’t tell you it will be boring. That so much of it will wash over you like the tides against an old wooden dock waiting for that boat – that historic moment – that great feeling – that epic passion – that remarkable achievement. Till it doesn’t come.

Then what?

Our quiet love. Silent as a crisp African night. Still as the waters of a placid lake in which our son will swim. Pristine as filtered water – clear and cool and clean. Untroubled – until the storm, the lightning and the floods reminding us it has not always been so.

Our true love. True because it is a love of equals, a love with passion and abandon that is rooted in the mundane. Grand feelings of familiarity and silence against the backdrop of great tribulation. Because we must not talk – not anymore. We could, we do, we will; but we need not. It has all been said – so many times – yet it is new and somehow still fresh.

Our forever love. Not because it is inevitable, not because we are obliged, conscripted or trapped. A love of choice, of opportunity and of privilege. A love of past, of present and of future. A love of now – of today more than of tomorrow or of yesterday. A love that endures strong as we age – like a grand statue tested and polished by time.

Our love – because it should be so, it must be so, it will be so; because it is so.

About Joel D. Hirst

Joel D. Hirst is a novelist and a playwright. His most recently released work is "Dreams of the Defeated: A Play in Two Acts" about a political prisoner in a dystopian regime. His novels include "I, Charles, From the Camps" about the life of a young man in the African camps and "Lords of Misrule" about the making and unmaking of a jihadist in the Sahara. "The Lieutenant of San Porfirio" and its sequel "The Burning of San Porfirio" are about the rise and fall of socialist Venezuela (with magic).
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1 Response to Our Love

  1. Pingback: A Thank You Note To My Companions | Joel D. Hirst's Blog

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