When she was sixteen, she dated a boy who wrote her songs.
His Christmas gifts were ballads on a grand piano, sung to her beneath the
twinkle of the tree. His presence was made known by hums and whistles, short
melodies sung quietly, so only she could hear. He believed that the path to
forgiveness began with his guitar beneath her window, and a serenade to the
moonlight.
When
she was nineteen, she dated a girl who wrote her love letters. Always mailed,
with a single stamp, even when they shared an apartment. Her cursive was like
art, the paper thick and textured. She received a new letter weekly, each
filled with beautiful prose and syntax. Her girlfriend believed in art, and in
grand proclamations of love.
Now,
she dates a boy who does nothing of the sort. Her boyfriend can’t carry a
simple tune, and isn’t much more talented with words. He isn’t one for grand
proclamations, of love or otherwise. Instead, she finds notes—small notes,
taking up no more than a post-it, which she finds littered around her life. A
stupid joke in her lunch, or a reminder on the mirror, or an “I love you” on
her pillow.
She
doesn’t wish for anything grand. Three simple words are more than enough, if
they come from the right person.
