Love is a complicated matter

Recently I saw a photo that made me recall bits and pieces of my childhood years. From this memory, I remember a poem I kept about love that a child does not understand.

The Memory:
I couldn’t help it but hear conversations of adults when we lived in a small tenement.  Everything is within earshot.

Our two bedroom split-level apartment, Mother turned the living room into a dress shop by day. The door is always open for business. People come and go. Mother has so many clients; mostly female to have made-to-measure outfit. Sometimes, men come, too, to shorten their pants.

Mother is just not a seamstress to these women. She is their confidante. They talk adult stuff. Sometimes I hang around adults because it makes me feel grown up. So I listened.

One woman is always crying the blues because her man seldom comes. Why would she cry if her man is not around? She is a beautiful woman. I am sure she can always find another boyfriend. I find this is a complicated situation.

Mother doesn’t cry anymore. Or maybe she does. I just don’t see it. Or maybe because she doesn’t have a man since Father has been long dead. She has only male friends. One good friend I know of I call is Uncle Tony. I suppose friends are better than a boyfriend.

There are other women who lived in our little home aside from my sisters. Some seamstress stayed with us that Mother employed. They, too, have their stories.

One time I found a love letter in one of our closets, all written in English. I know it was a love letter because it says ‘I love you.’ I may know how to read, but I don’t understand the language of love. But I have a feeling it was an unrequited love. I put back the letter between the clothing where I found it, Doing childish stuff what child most do, I completely forgot about it,

Adult conversation is boring for me. They are always serious. Instead, I spend time on the street playing.

Having freedom to run around on the streets, I get to know some neighbours.

We have a neighbour that has three children. The story goes that the children’s father is a priest. What do I care? I know nothing about adultery, decency or the Ten Commandments.  All I want is to play with the neighbour’s children. Come to think about it, this is similar to the story of The Thorn Birds.

The Photo:
The Other WomanA woman standing with a light by the window made me think with simple wonder. Nothing complicated. Just questions.

– Why is she standing by the window?
– Is the light to guide someone in?
– How long has she been there?
– Is she waiting for someone?
– Did the person ever come?
– What is she waiting for?
– Who is she waiting for?

The Poem:

The Other Woman

For a woman who is supposed
 To do a lot of loving,
 I sometimes do
 A lot of hating.

I hate me for being so involved with him.
 I hate him for not being involved enough with me.
 I hate them for needing him.
 It’s all so – oh, so unloving.
 And I never meant to be that way.

All I wanted was a little love-
 And certainly it started innocently enough.
 But on our way to finding love
 We lost our innocence.

When things get really intense between us
 We touch and listen to music.
 We are so close and so much a part of each other
 That we shut out all the rest of the world.
 He promises that we are going to live together,
 And I cry and ask when.
 And he holds me close and says, “Someday.”

Someday I can go to his business dinners,
 And someday those theater tickets I order will be for us,
 Not for them.
 Someday I’ll be able to call him in the middle of the morning,
 And he’ll drop everything to find out what’s bothering me.
 As it is now, I can’t afford to tell him what’s bothering me
 Because he loves the no bother of me.
 No stopped sinks in our relationship.
 He adores the reality of our unreality.
 But someday…
 Someday, he says.

I don’t know what will happen
 If I tell him we’re through.
 I’m not sure I’m strong enough
 To eat alone every night.
 And I’m not sure I’m brave enough
 To eat alone every night.
 And I’m not sure I’m brave enough
 To get into a bed that’s cold on both sides.

And as much as I love
 Meeting him at five,
 And dread
 Him leaving me at seven,
 What would I do without those two hours?

What do I want?
 Part-time Charlie
 Or full-time empty me?
 I wish I knew what to do.

How do you know when
 You want to change your life
 And upset a clutch of people
 In order to make yourself happy?

When do you decide
 You have the right to decide?

More important…
 When does he?

Now:
What a poetry full of love and hate. So ironic. I wish I know who wrote it. This could be the story of one of the women in my childhood. Or a love story of so many women in the world.

I may be older now still with a childlike outlook in life, I still find that love is a complicated matter.

Photo Credit: Helen Chen of HHC Blog
Poem: Author unknown

12 thoughts on “Love is a complicated matter

  1. Wrote a daily blog for one whole year on “Love Is”,
    still writing “Love Is” once every five days,
    and I still have no idea what “Love Is”.
    To each his or her own, whenever, whatever and however
    they may relate to love and the object of their adoration
    at any given time.
    Love. like everything else in God’s world, is constantly changing.
    Those who accept and grow with the changes
    are more likely to know what love means to them.
    Childlike is not a disadvantage to those who love.
    Love, hugs and blessings … ME

  2. Love is whatever you make it… my husband would have it being rose petals and champagne everyday, but for me, clean my windows and do the laundry and I’m forever yours! 🙂

  3. Love is the most complicated of uncomplicated things. Or maybe the most uncomplicated of complicated things. I guess it is just what it is. And what it is depends on who you are.

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