You are hereTruthout: They Love Each Other

Truthout: They Love Each Other

-by William Rivers Pitt

-May 27, 2011-

It's nothing, they explain
It's like a diesel train
You better not be there
When it rolls over

And when that train rolls in
You don't know where it's been
You gotta try and see
A little further...

- Robert Hunter

I am in love with my wife. I love her, and am also in love with her, and those are two very separate things, a difference you'll understand if you've ever been there. We met, we courted, we fell for each other, and it was like throwing the parachute out of the plane and jumping out after it. We caught it, and landed softly in a wedding ceremony an October and a half ago under the blazing canopy of New Hampshire in Autumn, and every day since has filled me to bursting.

I take my ring off every once in a while, hold it in my palm, and look at it. It is a perfect circle, seamless, with neither beginning nor end. So it is with my love for my wife, and her love for me. At my disposal are all the words that are or have ever been, and still I stand wordstruck before the simple task of explaining how I feel about her, and us. It is too much. I am undone before the tremendous fact of my love for her.

She is my last love, but she is not my first.

There was a girl in high school, who I had dreamed of for far and ever before we finally found each other. I was eighteen, a head-bursting incoherent eighteen, and in that other October (the 14th, to be exact) we were brave enough to kiss in her bedroom one night when her parents were away. She was my first love, and to this day I remember the lines of her face to the decimal. Her smile could undo mountains, and she laughed quite exactly like music. Were I to live a thousand lifetimes, I would never, ever forget her.

There was a girl in college who was a vast, beautiful mystery. She was wounded when I met her, just as I was, and we were well met in the silence between us, because we knew, we understood, and we relished the shared peace between those unspoken words. She was cursed with wisdom far beyond her years, and that knowledge walked with her always. She was voluptuous in silence, an enigma, exhausting, and altogether lovely.

There was a girl in San Francisco, sharp as a blade and beautiful beyond explanation. She was the world exploding, made entirely of rage and passion and blunt force, soft in her way, and entirely unforgiving.  She had the worst poker face in all of human history, and was helpless to avoid letting the world know her thoughts, because she wore them on her sleeve and on her unutterably beautiful face. Her presence bent the very light.


And there is Cailen, song of songs, my love, my wife. I defy the whole world to find eyes of a more glorious blue than hers. Her hair, her face, her way...oh, I could sing her song from here to the end of the world, but sufficed to say, she is my beloved. She is my breath. I am, because she is.

It is my privilege to tell these stories in the broad light of day, and that privilege has everything to do with gender. Were I to spin similar tales of my love for Mike instead of Michele, Larry instead of Laura, Carl instead of Cara, or Chris instead of Cailen, I might get my ass kicked for my trouble. But I'm lucky. I am a man attracted to women. Thus, I am spared from Biblical damnation.

For lo, it doth saith in Leviticus 18:22 that "You shall not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination." This is the same Book that saith, and I quote Exodus 35:2, "Six days you shall do work: the seventh day shall be holy unto you, the Sabbath and the rest of the Lord: he that shall do any work on it shall be put to death."

Wait, what?



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