In my mid-20s, I enjoyed poring over the Chicago Tribune ever Sunday morning. My husband and I spread ourselves and the sections of the paper across the living room floor. As the rays of the sun, which shone through the patio doors, slowly inched their way from morning to afternoon, we read every word in every section of the paper. I remember those mornings fondly.
One Sunday -- I recall it being near Valentine's Day -- I opened a section of the paper to a two-page spread. The author had interviewed various Chicagoans asking "What does love mean to you?"
Abbreviated responses were encapsulated in speech balloons and suspended across the pages.
"Love is patient."
"Love is kind."
"Love is all you need."
"Love is looking in the same direction."
As I read the quotes, a warm'n'fuzzy feeling filled my traditional heart.
But that warm feeling quickly turned to repulsion when I read the balloon that had sunk deep into the crease at the foot of the page: "Love is not meant to be shared with the same person forever."
One Sunday -- I recall it being near Valentine's Day -- I opened a section of the paper to a two-page spread. The author had interviewed various Chicagoans asking "What does love mean to you?"
Abbreviated responses were encapsulated in speech balloons and suspended across the pages.
"Love is patient."
"Love is kind."
"Love is all you need."
"Love is looking in the same direction."
As I read the quotes, a warm'n'fuzzy feeling filled my traditional heart.
But that warm feeling quickly turned to repulsion when I read the balloon that had sunk deep into the crease at the foot of the page: "Love is not meant to be shared with the same person forever."