We don’t learn to love each other well in the easy moments. Anyone is good company at a cocktail party. But love is born when we misunderstand one another and make it right, when we cry in the kitchen, when we show up uninvited with magazines and granola bars, in an effort to say, I love you.
I’m not superstitious.
But I will throw salt over my shoulder.
And I’ll cross my fingers, knock on wood,
avoid cracks, and never walk underneath ladders.
I don’t believe in that stuff.
But I will wish on shooting stars
and birthday candles, and put faith
in lucky underwear and first date shoes.
These are silly things to do.
To hold your breath in tunnels or
taking pennies that are face up.
It’s just that,
I’m so scared of losing you.
And if having something old, new, borrowed and blue
means that I get to grow old with you,
to make every new thing a second time,
having to cosign a loan for a house,
and to see every shade of sky there is,
it’s worth never opening an umbrella inside.
“She speaks more languages than anyone in the family. Because she plays with all the children in the street.” (Erbil, Iraq)