The Symphony of Us

You learn her in movements—

*First movement: Allegro.*

The year of tangled limbs and too-late nights,

of burned dinners and takeout boxes,

of her laughing with noodles dangling from her lips

while you swore you’d never loved anything more.

*Second movement: Adagio.*

The season of hospital vigils,

her mother’s frail hands between yours,

learning how love means holding space

for grief to settle like snowfall—

quiet, inevitable,

changing the landscape of you both.

There are discords, of course.

The slammed door when you forgot the anniversary.

The month she slept on the couch

after the miscarriage neither of you knew how to name.

The way silence sometimes grows teeth

and bites without warning.

But always, *always*,

the return to theme:

Her cold feet seeking your calves at 3 AM.

The secret language of your shared glances

across crowded rooms.

The way you still catch your breath

when she steps into sunlight,

just like that first laundromat afternoon.

Now, watching her teach your granddaughter

how to knead dough (flour everywhere,

just like her first disastrous attempt),

you understand:

Love isn’t the crescendo.

It’s the entire score—

the flats and sharps,

the pauses and sustains,

the way two melodies twine

until no one remembers

which voice began where.