We fell in love just as the first bombs began to fall on Iraq. The whole world felt surreal back then. CNN was on constantly --like wallpaper. Like dinner cooking when you're child and just home from soccer practice. I can't remember now but it must have been on for months straight. We could hear it from the bedroom, slanted sideways in our sheets, our toes held centimeters from the radiator rods.
"Hey…" I had whispered.
"I think it started."
And that was it. Five minutes later we were blanketed in the living room. He made tea and gave me the larger mug. That is how I remember it: radiator rods to warm mugs and the slices of cold in between, all surrounding the glow and fade of the war's opening act. That winter it snowed almost constantly in Boston. It was something I'd never experienced. The winters of my childhood were rainy and gray. They built up to snowstorms but never lived in them. That winter was historic. A throw-back to a time before my life, when I imagine, winters were winters and not ashy versions of themselves. We needed the snow. It made sense in a world that was suddenly atilt with significance. Somehow, the events of those years – the collapse of the towers, the launch of the war, the potent uncertainty of graduation, sex and romance – only fortified for me what it meant to be in love. There was a narrative building around us. It seemed timed and purposeful.
(Beautiful) Photo by M Krigsman: http://www.flickr.com/people/mkrigsman/ (CC)