I found this picture of my parents when my mother went to Bangladesh with my dad. I once jokingly said to my mom that although my dad is not a maharaja, he built his version of taj mahal for her.
I once said in my youth that I didn't want what my parents had. I always viewed their union a bit too "unromantic" for my tastes. It wasn't until much later that I would start to realize that how far I was from the truth. They knew each other from a very young age, having gone to school together. When they grew up, my dad wanted to marry her.
For 38 years, they built a life together. Now as I watch them together, I am starting to see the people that I missed in my parents. I see the way she tells him she loves him before she goes to sleep as if she wants to make sure the last words she speaks to him are these, just in case. I hear the note of tenderness in his voice when he calls her honey.
I watch as he prepares food for her, helps her, takes care of her. His hands and body move in a functional manner. The look on his face is one of absolute tenderness. On this man's face, the one I have always known as father is a look that I am unable to express even with my wealth of vocabulary. The love burns so bright that it scorches if you dare to look it full in the face.
I have much to learn about love from these two people I have been fortunate to call parents. It's more magnificent than anything I have ever heard, read, or seen anywhere.
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