All you need is love

Giant German guy with intricate tattoos on his gymbuilt arms, big swollen things that are too bound to hold a guitar or play a piano or maybe even tie his shoes, face masked with fierce terminator wraparounds and a gorgeous young mom at his elbow, the beer starting to kick in and the toddler on his left starts to cry.

He turns that assassin’s face and uncorks hands massive shovels and scoops up the infant who’s dared to spoil his sunshine and Mediterranean view of the billionaires’ boats and the child falls silent knowing even at this age what’s coming and the big man coos and pets and dandles and pulls out the tiny stuffed zebra which is already superfluous, a cherry on top of his father’s towering sundae of love.

Love isn’t where you find it, it’s where you were lucky enough to have it freely given.

Over on the small plaza in front of the church a lady kicks a soccer ball to her son. He rushes and mis-kicks with four-year-old full commitment, each boot total and punctuated with commentary, his own. When his mom misses he shouts and jumps in glee the glee that engulfs small people as it dawns on them that adults aren’t always better it’s called confidence.

A stray ball shoots over to my bench I kick and another stray wilds to another bench anchored by a huge lady but she’s on the team too and whacks it back into play until a big arcing kick sends it down the steps up against the feet of an elderly four-top basking at the cafe soaking up wine and the afternoon. An old craggy grandfather lifts the ball and hands it over gently as naturally as if a bright orange and black spinning ball belonged in a cafe where else?

Community ball where everyone pitches in a little that’s cycling too, our funky mix of Norwegians and Americans larger and smaller and faster and slower garrulous or quiet sharp-tongued or gentle on the road the flats got changed and no one got left behind and back at the ranch, you know, Leiv and Steve cooked from scratch all the dishes got washed and you can call it whatever you want but me I call it, too, love freely given.


19 thoughts on “All you need is love”

  1. Good thing Joyce was born in Ireland a hundred or so years ago…If he was a millenial born in Orange County, he would be called “J.J.” and go to AYSO soccer games in a cage, instead of booting the ball around a small piazza with his mom. (They do have piazzas in Kildare…they just aren’t called that!)

  2. Ahh, the afterglow of a good time. You know it was right when you’re sad it is over. Thanks for sharing it was excellent reading.

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