Another of those seat-of-the-pants post, born of The Event of the Morning. You know the one I mean. In London.

I didn’t expect to be watching. But I’m a sucker for the magnetism of significant events. And for a certain news guy. And so, scrubbing sleep from my eyes, there I was, building my morning around commercial breaks, watching the drama happen.

And my reaction? It surprised me. Even though I’m having a tough time defining what it is.

Tears, yes. Awe, yes. Pride and admiration for a strong, modern woman who stood as a representative of who, what, as a gender, we have become. And an emotionalism that, even now, I am having a hard time understanding.

Life as a writer has removed me—I have removed me—from many of the considerations and realities of real life. I don’t totally get it. But I live it. I look wonderingly upon those who have gotten what they wanted…who live fully the glorious and the mundane moments of what it is to be human. I have built an idea of love that is as huge as my imagination, as real as my ability to love. It is a love tempered by experience of The World. It is a love that I have not seen returned. At least not yet.

This is my doing. My responsibility. And again, it seems as if Real Life is lived at a remove from me.

Perhaps that is what’s made me so emotional about this morning; what has left me like a sweet raw nerve, suspended in my own confused and hopeful head. The knowledge that love happens. Despite everything. The awareness that it happens at a distance from me.

The kiss? Window dressing. A crumb to the crowd, tossed from the table of the true work of a relationship. But a small evidence of an adoration, a commitment, a coming-together of two fully-realized selves.

A happiness that has a bittersweet cast. For the love that waits.

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