I'm Still Falling In Love With You

What I didn't know about love on our first date is staggering.

I was an innocent on our first date.

We have fifty years of Valentine’s Day Together

I wrote a poem for you this year, my husband. It’s part of a much longer reflection on Medium called Quantum Love—Bare Necessities, but I want to share the poem with you here.

“I’m still falling in love with you after fifty years.”

I lay warm against his side
Cuddling before supper
Looking up to meet his
Green-gray eyes,
And tell him the secret
I’ve been cherishing
This February of Tempestuous Times.
2025 — a year we will remember
As the end of life as we knew it.
February 4, they gathered up people
For “Coming to America”
Sending them to Gitmo like terrorists.

I need to believe our love will outlast
Petty tyrants and spineless lawmakers.
It fills up my hollow legs with fear to
Buckle my knees for oppression.

I’m white, but my grandchild’s the same color
As the people herded like cattle
Into a prison,
When will they decide there are too many for Gitmo?
My love for you Bob,
It’s strong and clear within me.

As necessity sharpens my perception
It’s growing and changing,
Your smile lines are passion promises.
We are together despite fraudsters and craven ambitions
Our love is a quantum connection,
“I’m still falling in love with you after fifty years.”

For my husband, Bob

What I didn’t know about love on our first date is staggering.

Every once in a while, someone asks a question that pulls the blanket off the shoulder of her lover. She may answer true or keep playing around with the mundane.

All the same, the matter, the space, and the time, are entangled so that the super-position of loving and Beloved are one.

Love is something I can keep falling into after fifty years with you. It has unplumbed depths.

We are all born connected to the fabric of a many-bodied love entity. My heart understands better than my head which can get lost in Narcissistic individualism. My heart always has a job to do and it has to work harder to do it these later years.

Do you remember our first Valentine’s Day when you had to work on the gang for the railroad because it was midweek? I was in class and got a message to go to the office. I went to the office to discover a dozen red roses sitting on the School Secretary’s Desk. You had your Mom deliver them to the school. Mrs. R. was beaming at me,

“You’ve got a guy with a good heart!”

I agreed and asked her to keep them until the day’s end.

“I’ll take pictures and post them for myself to remember. Oh, they smell glorious. It’s not something Mr. R. does, send me flowers.”

That was more personal information than I ever expected to learn about romance and Mr. R. I went back to class wondering how I would get a dozen roses home intact on the hour-and-a-half bus ride home.

Mrs. R. had been thinking. She had wrapped the roses in a white florist box that she got them to drive up from the shop during my afternoon classes. The empty vase was tucked into the box and she taped it shut tight. My bus driver had been contacted and she had prepared a spot on top of her extra coat behind her seat for the box to sit.

Bob, every woman who learned about your gift to me that day got to share the wonder of receiving flowers on Valentine’s Day. When I walked in the door carrying the box my Mom’s eyes popped with surprise. My four sisters and brother gathered around the table as I opened the box and everyone took a big breath because the scent of roses was heavenly. I filled the vase with rose food and water and arranged the baby’s breath around the twelve deep passionate red roses. I was sweet, sixteen, and wishing to see you that day. The kisses had to wait for Friday night.

Guess what, it’s fifty years later, and tonight’s Friday Night!