Love’s a Trip

"The weight of love is heavier than any psychedelic trip." - Scene - Rated PG13

The weight of love is heavier than any psychedelic trip. I cannot believe the sensation comes sober.

“Fuck. Joe.” I breathe. 

I sit, cross legged, staring ahead at our light-filled, picture window. Inside, on the sofa we bought expecting this moment, I try to describe what I am experiencing. 

“I just. I love you.” The words heave out. First with breath. Then convulsive sob. I land my head on Joe's  chest; our newborn lying in my lap. My rock hard tits tense against the baby’s soft swaddled body. Our midwives said I’d know when my milk came in, but did they mean this or just the tits? The engorgement was nothing to the heartache. None of this is what I expected. 

“Mmm,” goes his usual nature to affirm in singular sound, as he squeezes us into him with both arms.

“Love is overwhelming,” I say into his cotton t-shirt. “It’s like…” I’m searching for the word attached to the memory of this. “I desperately need you.” But neither ‘need’ nor ‘desperate’ are weighted enough. Because I’ve never felt this way before.

His chest vibrates against my sweaty forehead, in a quiet chuckle. It reminds me of the first time he laughed when I cried. He was offended. I was too. “Isn’t crying what comes before someone breaks up with you?” he asked. No, you fool, I’m falling in love with you, I thought to myself. And then months later when I finally said that out loud, we did it again. He laughed. I cried. 

I sob again for the memory. “You love me too,” I say with my chin on his chest. “I can tell.” 

He squeezes my shoulders. I drag my face across his t-shirt, wiping my tears, and look up. His eyes, more doglike than usual, look at me as I saw him look at our baby two days previous. I recognize it as care, and protection. The heaviness lifts. I have what I need. My god. The relief. I collapse back into him, losing my breath.

“Oh baby. Oh baby.” He coo’s and palms my hair into a tangle. I curl into a ball around our baby and let him hold my head on his lap.

“Fuck, Joe. I feel absolutely sloppy. I can’t help it. Should I be embarrassed?” 

“No. No. Definitely not.”

Before I knew we spoke love differently, I knew our capacities for love matched. I can still feel the complimentary silence between us as Jessica Pratt’s album ‘On Your Own Love Again’ played through his caseless baby blue iPhone 8. Side by side, clothed on top of his leopard print duvet. I saw him from the first night. His strength. His peace.

Sometime after that night, he told me working class midland Brits joke through every emotion. “If everything is bleak, nothing is beneath a laugh.” Maybe by that logic, my Minnesotan kin extend goodbyes for the love of poignance. Most of the year from Minneapolis to Duluth, one could reasonably be gripped by Seasonal Affective Disorder so one might as well relish the mood.

In our nesting doll state, we hear my dad and uncle’s footsteps approach our porch. I wipe my eyes, and smile at them as they press their face up to the picture window. They join us inside, and sense our party of three is complete. The goodbye begins with hellos.

As they talk, my mind drifts back to this hormonal wave I’m riding. A rogue wave. I’m afraid of heights. I wouldn’t have walked to this ledge and lept. I wouldn’t have let this wash over me without Joe. The grounded companion. I would’ve kept one foot in reality. Been my own designated driver. I think of all the congested hormone highways I’ve been saved because of this moment. His presence. I consider imagining all the future ones too, but I don’t. I’m grateful to be traveling this one now. The sun is setting through our western window. It’s my dad’s cue to drive home.

As they walk back past that window I hear my uncle, “They’re going to be ok.” My dad nods. 

I look at Joe. He’s looking at Henry. We’re not on our own, ever again.

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