Love, according to the Vietnamese monk and peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh, is a living, breathing thing, but for the life of me, I can never remember her name.
No matter how many times we meet, Love’s name just goes in one ear and out the other. She keeps coming around, though, always unannounced, and when she does, I stare, mute, a vague recognition in my eye, her name on the tip of my tongue, escaping me, only to arrive with the force of a hurricane after she has gone.
Perhaps, I think, if I could meet Love in a quieter place, where the din of society’s messages is hushed, I would see her and recall her name with ease, but society’s messages are everywhere there are people, even by the fireplace in the cozy living room on a snowy day, my adult daughter curled up on the couch, deep in a book.
Perhaps it would help if I used a mnemonic device. I might think of something that rhymes with Love. Or repeat the name three times. Maybe I could associate it with a color. But how would that work, I wonder. Love never looks the same way twice. What will prompt my memory in the absence of a constant?
I’ve finished my bowl of Mexican wedding soup. My son-in-law goes back for seconds. My daughter tells a joke about an architect, and my granddaughter delights in gumming and swallowing yet another meatball from the tray of her high-end highchair, and something within me stirs.
A moment later, I watch as my son-in-law takes a breath, purses his lips, and blows a cool breeze through my granddaughter’s downy hair, eliciting a squeal of delight.
And this time, I recognize her right away. “Oh, yes! Hello, Love,” I say. “It’s ever so nice to see you again!”
Tricia Bernard lives in Charlotte, NC
