
At the end of the day, I cook supper, giving my husband half an hour to watch the news without interruption. After the weather report, he sits down at the table and watches while I finish cooking our meal. We eat and talk. Mostly we talk about what has to be done —— groceries to buy, grass to mow, bills to pay, and I mention that the door still sticks. After dinner, if the weather is nice, we go for a walk, maybe watch a little TV. Bedtime comes at nine-thirty. When the lights are out, weconfess the things that worry us, drawing strength from each other’s nearness.
I believe this is love.
When I was a child I thought a lot about what it means to love. I knew the romantic ideals of Cinderella and Sleeping beauty, but it was the love story of Laura Ingalls and Almanzo Wilder that I returned to again and again. In contrast, their love story was so stark and so deliberate, and it alone continued beyond the ever after.
I once asked my mother if she loved me or my father more. Certainly, I knew the answer: me. Instead, she bent down and looked me in the eye, hands gently on each shoulder. She explained that she couldn’t help loving me and that the love of a mother for her baby was incredibly strong. But then she told me the love she had for my daddy was a love of choice, which made it extra special. Of all the people in the world, she chose him and he chose her.
I would think about her declaration often in the coming years as my parents adjusted to my mom’s new career outside the home and coped with raising a teenager. When my parents sometimes couldn’t have a conversation without turning it into an argument, I suspect they, too, thought about their choices.
Now that I’m married, I consider each day what it takes to stay married and in love as long as my parents have. It’s not that I don’t believe in romance and the extravagance spontaneity of last-minute weekend trips, our witty conversation over champagne brunches. But I believe more in the sacred of the ordinary. I believe in love that is sustained by deliberate kindness and the choice to see little excess testaments of love and commitment rather than indicators of a spark that has died. Of love communicated, each time he cooks our meal and I schedule his dental appointment. This picture of love is certainly less exciting, but decidedly real, and in its own way more romantic because of the weight of its reality.
So in the small silences of our predictable, boring day, I choose him and I choose love, all over again.
Vocabulary:
conceive [kən'si:v] v. 怀孕
oatmeal ['əutmi:l] n. 燕麦片,燕麦粥
confess [kən'fes] v. 承认,坦白,忏悔
stark [stɑ:k] adj. 朴实的,质朴的
deliberate [di'libərət] adj. 深思熟虑的,审慎的
spontaneity [,spɔntə'neiəti] n. 自发性;自然发生
testament ['testəmənt] n. 实证
predictable [pri'diktəbl] adj. 可预言的
我丈夫起床后第一件事是淋浴,给我留出额外的20分钟继续睡一会。他总会轻吻我的额头来唤醒我,并在我的耳边呢喃说他爱我。他离开的时候,会关掉所有的灯,所以我能再睡多5分钟。他揽下所有的洗碗活,并煮好的脱咖啡因的咖啡,差不多一年多以前,我们决定是时候要个孩子了,于是从那时便开始喝脱因咖啡。当我从淋浴房出来后,我的咖啡已经准备好了——伴着方糖、乳酪,还有他递给我的报纸。我们几乎不怎么说话。晨报与旧式的燕麦泡泡是不变的背景。
在一天结束的时候,我会下厨做晚饭,留给我的丈夫半个小时安安静静看新闻的时间。天气预报之后,他会坐到桌边,看着电视;与此同时,我则做好我们的晚餐。我们边吃边谈。通常我们会谈论有什么要做的事——买日用品、修草坪、付账单,我也会提到门还是会卡住。晚饭后,如果天气不错,我们会出去散一会儿步,或者还看一会儿电视。九点半世就寝的时间。熄灯之后,我们向对方讲述那些让自己焦虑的事情,从彼此的亲昵中汲取力量。
我相信,这就是爱。
当我还是小孩的时候,我就总会想爱意味着什么。我知道灰姑娘和睡美人式浪漫爱情理想,但更愿意一遍遍重温劳拉与怀尔德之间的爱情故事。相比之下,他们之间的爱情故事如此质朴、如此审慎,这样的爱本身就能延续超越永恒。
我曾问我的母亲,她是爱我多点还是爱父亲多点。当然,我知道答案:是我。她弯下腰,看着我的眼睛,双手轻轻地搭在我的双肩上。她说她对我的爱是情不自禁 的,母亲对自己宝贝的爱总是那样强烈。但是,她又告诉我,她对父亲的爱是一种选择的爱,这种爱很特别。这世界上有那么多的人,她选择了他,而他选择了她。
后来,我父母亲因为妈妈在家务之外的新工作所作的调整,处理着对我的培养问题。那时,我经常会回想起妈妈的话。有时候,父母亲会讲着讲着就吵了起来,那时,我也会怀疑他们,并思考他们的选择。
而今我也结婚了,我思考着每天究竟是什么让婚姻和爱情像父母亲所做的那样能长长久久。我并非不相信浪漫,周末惊喜旅行会带来莫大的冲动,佐以香槟的早午餐 时间我们也会来一场风趣幽默的对话。但是我更相信平凡中的相敬如宾。我相信爱是靠为彼此着想的心来维持的,爱是一种选择,以看清彼此在爱和承诺中的所经历 的并不过分的小考验,而不是瞬间迸发但却迅速消逝的火花。每一次,他做饭,而我则会为他预订好牙科检查,这便是一种爱的交流。当然,这样的爱的画面并不那 么有情趣,但却很真实,并因其真实,而以一种独有的方式变得更加浪漫。
所以,在这波澜不惊近乎单调的日子里,在各种小小的沉默中,我选择了他,而他选择了我,一次又一次。
