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Once, someone had this great notion that love was pleasant. Love was something you looked for; something you wished would bless you. Then, love got complicated. The idea of love was diluted with questions devoid of answers and answers devoid of questions. But that was further down love's road. See, most of us had already begun the journey and were to far along to turn back.

When we were kids, love was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Love was sitting in the shade under your favorite tree with your best friend. Love was your grandparents. Love was that 7 year-old whom I promised my heart to as I wore grandma's best dishcloth as a veil and he wore his dad's best tie. After we proclaimed our love, we feasted on a box of Oreo's from his house and a half a gallon of milk from mine with a group of our closest friendsG.I. Joe, Aladdin and the performers of the world famous Bug Circus. The best part was the honeymoon of course. He led me by the hand to our favorite tree. We sat under it and he kissed me. Our honeymoon lasted 7 minutes, but it might have well been a lifetime.
I didn't see him for a full week after that. Then, he came and knocked on my door. He again led me by the hand to my favorite tree, but this time, he covered my eyes. When he let me see for myself again, I understood his absence after our honeymoon. He had built me a tree housebut I referred to it as our "Tree Home." He was the provider. I was the decorator.
It was beautiful. Had a window in the floor and on the wallstate of the art back in those days. It had a pulley system so we could hoist a bucket up full of whatever we needed. So we played house.
As kids, everything seems to be ideal, until you reach that point of no return. For me, it was him. But for him, it wasn't me. For him, it was his father's midnight flight after hours of yelling and cursing. It was his parents' sin against love. It was their divorce. He no longer believed in love. He no longer understood what it meant to be with someone who made you happy. Love was whatever was in the refrigerator. Love was black clouds over his favorite tree. Love was his non-existent father, his depressed mother and his diseased family. Love wasn't me anymore; love was pain.
I think we divorced, but he liked to say separated. I made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of milk and headed over to our tree home. He wouldn't look in my eyes. He wouldn't answer me. He wouldn't even touch his food, although I knew he was hungry. Finally,

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