I don’t want a guarantee. (I don’t believe in those).
I want a chance.
Life makes you promises — no, people make you promises. They say they won’t lie; they will and they do. They say they won’t leave you; they will and they do. They say they won’t hurt you, will always love you, can’t live without you, like you, really like you, miss you, fear for you, need you, would risk everything for you, would fight for you… They say all of these things and in the moment they mean them (you hope). But, eventually, life gets in the way. Reality does. And then they do everything they said they wouldn’t (or don’t do everything they said they would) and in that moment you are betrayed, you disbelieve, you lose faith.
But don’t lose hope because that’s what a chance is: hope.
I don’t want guarantees; I want chances.
I want the chance to make you laugh, to fall asleep next to you and to wake, to make you coffee in the morning, and to savor the tea you’ll make me. I want the chance to cook meals, bake cookies, drink wine (oh, to drink and drink and drink wine made from grapes outside the window of the vineyard we are visiting)… To fling flour, slide around the living room with the “can’t-help-it” wiggles, emergency room visits, contentious board games and in-laws, sweatpants, ratty t-shirts, paint stains on fingertips and cheeks, splinters from building IKEA furniture, and to wake you up at three in the morning because I can’t sleep and need the reassurance and to give you back the same.
I want the chance for the big, the vast, the tiny, and the mundane — all of it, I want it all.
I want the chance to do it right and most importantly, when I don’t, I want the chance to apologise and to get it right. (I will, just give me time, just keep giving me those chances; this can work).
I don’t need a guarantee. We are too old for that sort of fairy tale fantasy. I need something real.
Give us a chance?