A Little Love
From Paul Simon's Graceland.
Something about that lyric tugs at my heart.
I wrote in an earlier post, Heartfelt, that I have had my heart broken, and it is true. It is also true that, more often than not, I have been the heartbreaker. At least for a minute or two. I'm sure they're all well over it by now.
I think something in me wants not so much to go to Graceland as to be the receiver of grace. The grace of remembrance. The way I brushed my hair back from my forehead. The way I ... did something, said something, smiled.
So I imagine sometimes that if I had had grace enough to stick with someone that they would remind me now and again of some little thing in me that remains dear to them. Of a little love.
An older song runs through my sentimental head now and again. A Little Love always sounds like all I've ever wanted.
But if that's true, why did I keep leaving?
A recent article in the Guardian talks about the receding possibilities of late love. About the surety so many of us had of all the possibilities that still lay over the horizon - until we realize that the land has all been settled. That the homesteads are gone.
Besides, the devil on my other shoulder keeps asking, how long does a little love really last? I'm not saying it's impossible. But I can almost hear somebody complaining about the way I brush my hair back from my forehead.
"Your hair's hanging in your eyes again? Why don't you just get it cut, already?"