Celebrating almost four decades of the mystery of marriage today. . . and I read this in David Brooks’ new book “The Second Mountain”: “An old guy is talking to his daughter about his love for his late wife. He tells her, ‘Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two.'”
One tree and not two.
So beautiful and so true!