On Love and Loss

A short piece to bring me back to substack.

“All this love for her. I don’t know where to put it.” 

“Give it to me.”

I’ve recently been reminiscing on things I loved as a child. When I was younger and hadn’t yet hit double digits, my favorite thing to do was go to Times Square. My dad would spend his day off after back-to-back night shifts and overtime, taking a hyperactive and younger version of my sister and I onto New York public transportation, right into one of the busiest parts of Manhattan. There used to be this giant Toys R Us in the heart of Times Square. Inside there was this huge Ferris wheel, I mean, it nearly touched the ceiling, and almost every chair had statues of different characters, from Scooby Doo to Superman. My sister and I loved this thing and often brought it up to my dad. Wondering when we’d get to ride the train and walk through the busy streets of Manhattan to this Ferris wheel. We would excitedly wait to ride the Ferris wheel, guessing which character we would get to sit with this time. Now, as I’ve gotten older, started going to the city by myself, and became an adult, I began to realize that Times Square actually kind of sucks. No, not kind of, it genuinely is the worst. This has me questioning what drove my dad to take my sister and me there when we were younger, even knowing that it would be hell for him as an adult. Well, the answer is simple: he’s our dad, and he loves us. So, if we all hate Times Square now, what happens to this moment, to this love I had for this childlike experience, this type of love, to these interactions and moments with my dad?

Love is such an interesting thing because it exists in so many different forms, in everything, in varying degrees of intensity. Whether it’s a simple love for your favorite coffee shop, or the love between a human and their pet, or the intense love of family, friendships, and partners. It exists, it’s there. So what happens when the relationships end, when your favorite small coffee shop you love to read at closes down? When you experience the loss of a pet or family member? Does this love cease? Where do you put it? When you’ve poured everything from your cup, is all that is left the empty cup? Left with nothing but the residue of what it once contained? Or can it be refilled? Sometimes, the loss of someone or something can feel all-consuming, and isolating, and we become too engrossed in our grief. The idea of moving on seems selfish, and almost sinful. Moving on to a new place feels like cheating, but the truth is while the basis of love stays the same, the way it is given and expressed was never meant to stay the same. When something doesn’t feel the same, then it is time to make room for something new. When you eventually get a new dog, you’ll walk the same route in the morning, and it won’t be the same but it’ll feel new and you’ll learn to love it too. When the Toys R Us shuts down, and the little magic left of Times Square disappears, you’ll grow up and beg your dad to take you to the Harry Styles merch pop-up in the city. He’ll take the day off from work and drive you there and wait in the park for hours while you wait in line. When you both finally get inside and you look as happy as you did looking at the ferris wheel things suddenly feel okay. It’s not the same and it probably never will be, because nothing is immune to the change that time brings, but it’s new and slightly familiar. Maybe that is all love and loss can really give. When loss leaves you with an empty cup, love reminds you that it was once full and it can be full again.