The world was in agreement. My young marriage was destined for failure. My beautiful child, born out of wedlock was a pitiful poverty case to be. We were too young to be living an adult life with our childlike bodies and our naïve beliefs. “Playing house”, that’s what they called it… and true, we were but we didn’t know it. In that moment, I knew who I was, even if not completely a person yet, and I knew what I wanted, even if it meant losing the support of society. We loved each other, that alone would see us through. And for twelve years, I held on to those childlike dreams, through crisis and detraction, through times of poverty and times of plenty. It was liberating to make the critics second guess their predictions, to see the skeptics hold their breath, I was chin-up, never to be another divorce statistic, never to let them see me fall. I believed with all my heart that we would make it. And in those small moments of doubt, his reassurance bridged the gap.
The dream belonged to us both – we’d be the old couple sitting in rockers on the porch someday, waiting for the grandkids to get there. Maybe an apple pie would be baking in the kitchen, and the old dog would be lying on the porch at our feet. He’d squeeze my hand, like he always does, just to let me know he’s there, and we’d rock. Because after working your whole life to build something from nothing but a pile of doubt, you deserve to just sit and be with each other, finally… and to rock on the porch of the home you earned.
But dreams change, and people change, and while it’s hard to surrender to the doubt, I am willing to admit that maybe they were right. Maybe we were destined to fail, but we were so full of hope and love that we just couldn’t see it; I reluctantly join the side of the critics, and hesitantly nod in agreement.
Maybe love really can’t move mountains.