The year the troops came, my grandparents lived in a government-decreed
war zone that had proclaimed all declarations of love unconstitutional
unless uttered in darkened spaces.
That meant storm cellars, basements, vacant homes during power outages,
even bedrooms with not a single lamp or candle present.
If a single citizen was caught in broad daylight singing love songs,
carrying a bouquet filled with a dozen red roses to his sweetheart,
or even so much as whispering I love you
into the trembling palm of another human being,
the rations would be shut off and the entire zone flooded with light,
meaning no one would be able to show their affection for one another
until the government had decided the zone was safe-
the year the troops came, love was dangerous.
My grandparents learned to only touch each other in the dark,
to let their hands speak in the night
what their mouths could not during the day.
They learned an entirely new language that year:
the language of love as a kind of fear, but also a saving grace.
Because when the unexpected happened and all the lights were turned on
in every city and hiding place around the block,
my grandparents knew they at least had something to look forward to.
For even without their rations, even without food,
they were still full of something more.
And that something
was love.
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The Year of Only Speaking Love in the Dark
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