I knew I married a romantic.
I sensed the ghosts of past loves even as I drank in his sea-green eyes. He loves me, I know it. And he knows too, with the ripening of older love, that if we ever part, he will grieve long and hard. Because he always loves this way. My man loves deeply and completely. So I bask in his attention.
With the ghosts.
Those lovely ghosts of lost love. They hover a moment when an old postcard or lover's letter wades it's way through his memorabilia. There is, too, the woman who was the object of his best and greatest love. The woman he gave his whole heart to, completely and forever, long ago. Maybe she did not see or did not care so she brushed him aside. He carries that little torch for her, like a pilot light, still.
I may light his fire, but never as bright as that first, great love.
But I have my own spunk and fire. His playful swat on the fanny earns him a quick whack back. He doesn't have to guess what I am thinking, he hears it, good and bad, both barrells. If he ever landed in a hospital bed, he knows I would be at his side, terrorizing the nurses and making life miserable for anybody who might "forget" he needs care. Shrinking violet no more, mine is the love of the mature woman. I carry the weight of my love lightly, I am unafraid of the work of the long haul.
I am not jealous of his ghosts, I indulge his memories. Those ghosts remind me I have myself a sensitive and caring man. If he were ever so stupid to let me go, I know a part of me will be with him forever.