Love is the only rational act.

 

What is love? Do you know how to give out love and at the same time let Love in?

 

Last night, when I returned home, I found something that had never happened in my life. My husband was in the kitchen, preparing for a dinner. My husband, the man who I’ve married more than 15 years, was cooking.

 

“Who are you?” that question almost slipped out of my mouth.

 

My husband was a household chores virgin and we always thought that he would take that virginity into his grave.

 

My eyes went moist after I came back to myself. Because I knew, what exactly made him to break the spell.

 

What had happened in hospital upsets him after all, despite all his talks on the doctor’s bluffing.

 

15 years of marriage is such a long time. I thought all the fires and sparks had already went out. Neither of us is a romantical type. It would be much easier for me to see him as a family, instead of a husband.

 

His first cook surprisingly turned out to be good. It tasted almost like love.

 

Honestly, there have never been strong emotions between us. We got married simply because it was about the time and we happened to be there. That’s it. And after all those years, it just seems to be silly to talk about love.

 

However, love is always there. Not in an obvious way, not in a way that is everyday. Maybe death is the great equalizer, the one big thing that can finally make unspeakable and underline love visible.

 

When the doctor told me that there is a possibility that I might catch cervical carcinoma, he is the only one that I gave a call to. He dropped everything and came to me. He was the one who holds my hand when I was scared.  

 

My sentence has not arrived yet. It’s good to know that I am not the only who is waiting and praying. I try to keep my days as normal. I try not to think about it too much. However, it’s just hard to ignore it completely.

 

Yesterday, one friend from writing group urged me to write something in Chinese. What is happening right now can make it a good story. Anything unusual can make a good story, and the threat of death definitely is one of them.

 

However, I can’t, at least not in Chinese. I feel more comfortable to write it down in English. Hidden it in a foreign language gave me a sense of security.

 

It’s like writing my secret in English diary back in school days just in case that my mum happened to come across it.

 

It’s contradictory, isn’t it? The urge to hide if from the others, and at the same time the need for an outlet for my venting.

 

Humanity is complicated. I just hope one day I could tell this story as a joke.