52 Weeks

I don't know when I fell in love. I often wish I did. I honestly don't even know when we started actually dating. I know the first things we attended "together" were my best friend's 22nd birthday party & church for Easter the next morning. We're in love, though. And we're dating.

There is one night that I'll never forget. I think it's when we developed this sense of intimacy I still haven't quite gotten used to. Never before has a partner been so understanding of all the good and bad that I am. All of the anomalous behaviors, high-strung feminist beliefs, pet-peeves, & even my love for all things unrefined, he not only accepts, but also takes time to understand and respect. All of this was made possible on a windy April night.

He sent me a text & I could tell he was upset. It was close to angry, but painfully hurt. I was supposed to be writing my final paper for my research class that was assigned at the beginning of the semester. It was due 6 hours from then and I had yet to find a research question. I welcomed him as a distraction. Comforting him was what I did. He told me how alone he felt. How no one seemed to be there when he needed them most. I asked where he was and I went. I packed up my laptop in a less than valiant attempt to finish start my assignment, threw on my boyfriend's slides & wind breaker, and I went.

I got in my car, found a parallel park surprisingly close, and looked for where I thought he was. I found him. It was 3 am on a dock under some of the brightest street lamps I had ever seen. And he was hurting. I never told him how much I hated to see him hurt. I never wanted him to feel like a burden. That night, he told my how memories from early childhood transcended into happenings of late adolescence. He told my what he wished his girlfriend would do differently. I held him. He cried. I said whatever it was I always found to say when it felt like it should be said. I didn't tell him how much I hated seeing him love someone more than they loved him. He didn't tell me how he utterly despised "the Simpson" because he knew that guy somehow made my happier than I was before.

He thanked my for being there. I went home with him & spent the night as I had innumerable times before. We always slept in the same queen sized bed and somehow never managed to touch each other.

I woke up the next morning, slid on my boyfriend's shoes & jacket, and went to take my final. I got a 98 on the test and a 0 on the paper. It would be nice to blame him for that.

Months passed. We got closer. He never met my boyfriend, although I was somehow always uncomfortably chipper with his girlfriend. That dinner they had together where I first heard the song he wrote about her? Less awkward than was expected. But my cooking was always better than his girlfriend's, so that made it bearable for me.

My relationship unraveled. I lamented to him & whomever else would listen. And one might I wrote him an email. Why to him? Because he was the only person that didn't seem to have anything to gain from my vulnerability. He replied with a most comforting three sentences, and showed up at my apartment less than an hour later. We watched a movie on the couch. I went to the bedroom. He spent the night in the living room. I woke up the next morning and he was still there. Things probably were never quite the same since.

The day I ended my relationship happened to be the same day his did. A then-stranger told us that we were going to end up together. We laughed and continued the relationship we'd created for ourselves: unbreakable and delicate in all the most imperative ways. I planned his 21^st birthday party. He booked the DJ for mine. Then he came to my rescue at 3 am, held my hand and calmed me from hysteria to an innocent honesty that I could only achieve being as under the influence as I was, listened to me recite my probate show and ramble about how I really didn't want to die on my birthday. We were just always really good at being there for each other and expecting nothing in return.

I still believe that had it not been for The Hunger Games, a lie and Jack Daniels, we wouldn't be celebrating surviving our first year together today. But we are.

There isn't much more I could ask for in a boyfriend. I also hate using that word. It feels so trivial. It doesn't do him or our relationship justice. Before he was my lover, he was my brother. Before he was my brother, he was my friend. He is everything I'm afraid of and everything I long for. He is a constant reminder of the mercy and benevolence of the Creator. He is kind and forgiving and patient and absolutely beautiful. He is a helpmate. He is a protector. He is a dreamer. He is gentle. Everyday, he is a new lesson in accepting life for what it is and helping it become what know it should be. Everyday, he urges me to find god in myself and love her fiercely in hopes that maybe I will love her as much as he does.

These phrases and sentences and paragraphs are all futile attempts to intelligently explain how and why the past year of my life that I have spent growing and living with the love of my life has transformed me. I cannot put into words the love and joy I have experienced. I wish I could write down this smile.