I stop cooking thyme into my scrambled eggs.
My husband hates the aromatic plant.
He says it gives the eggs a weird, earthy,
groundish sort of taste. He is so much of my joy, I oblige.
I heard a story of an older man who wanted a baby with his younger wife.
After trying for years, he suggested they see a doctor – she declined.
She believed that babies should happen naturally.
Over time they grew apart; he wanting kids, she unwilling.
They later divorced.
I guess that is what love is, what it requires of you.
If you love someone: you try for them, you sacrifice for them,
you go without for them, and sometimes love requires you to visit
a doctor for them.
In my case, love means I go without thyme in my eggs.