Two Pairs of Hands
You, age 47, marry a man, age 65. There is no gap in your mental or motor skills. Then one day you are 62. He is 80. Over morning coffee, he says, “I need to write a thank-you note to Paul.” You reply, “Uh-huh. Do that.” He does not respond. You look up from your laptop. His eyes are misty. “I can’t write. That damn shake.” His doctor says the hand tremor is benign. Just old age. So here it is, writ large: age gap. You say, “I’ll write it for you.” He reaches over, grasps your hand. — Holly Mullen
Identical in Every Way
Four years ago, I gave birth to my first child, a son. My identical twin sister, Julie, was in the room. Julie and I have been bonded since birth: Our father is from an area in Nigeria that has one of the highest rates of twin births in the world. My sister’s middle name, Taiwo, means firstborn twin in Yoruba, and mine, Kehinde, means second-born twin. My son’s birth signified our first unshared experience. That is, until Julie gave birth to her own first child, also a son, as I watched in the delivery room, instantly reuniting our twin bond. — Jessica Kehinde Ngo
My Three Broken Hearts
My first broken heart came from a girl I met at church, our hidden relationship complicated by inexperience, religion and uncertain sexuality. The second? A woman whose whispers — “I love you,” “I can’t do this anymore” — emphasized the 13 years that separated us. The third? The moment my service as an Army officer felt inconsequential. Surrounded by compromised leadership, I watched the dream that began when I was 6 disappear. But like a good soldier, I will pick up that broken heart, tie it with 550 cord and carry on. — Dina Kim
A Summary of Love
Fat girl in school. Judged for the outside. Hardened by jabs but always wanting to be loved. Lost weight in college, exercised, became “normal.” Wrestled the fat-girl trauma away. But still no dates, no love, no hope? Worked, focused on career and graduate school. Dated without success. Gave up, hung with friends. Got close to one guy, talked long hours, shared puns. But he was an exchange student, gone after one semester. So we wrote letters every day. Connection grew. Visited him in Sweden where we finally named it love. Decades later, I see it was worth the wait. — Dawn Leijon
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Tiny Love Stories: ‘No Dates, No Love, No Hope?’ - The New York Times
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