I happened upon a movie called The Vow. It is based on true events, and showed a picture of the real couple during the credits. The woman named Paige had suffered a traumatic brain injury, and could not remember who her husband was. Leo was devastated.
The vows they had made at their hippy wedding in an art museum articulated their commitment to love each other through hardship. But no one could have predicted this.
Leo had been by her side through the hospital stay, supporting Paige's recovery at the expense of his business. His priorities were
clear. In a twist of fate, she could remember her family of origin, who eagerly scooped her back into their lives. But they had never met, much less approved of Leo, and were quick to dismiss him. Paige was confused. She had no memory of why she had cut off ties with her parents.
I am usually naively optimistic about forgotten love, but it seemed hopeless. I ached to see
Leo rejected again and again by the woman who used to adore him.
Even without head trauma, sometimes people forget how much they love each other. It befuddles me, even though as I write this I can gaze out my window at trees that look particularly brittle. The likelihood of sprouts coming out of thin sticks seems remote. In May, the azalea bushes by my front door will,
if all goes well, turn pink. They don't give any warning, nor can I discover where the pigment comes from. It happens suddenly, or at least it feels that way because I forget.
I don't understand the science of why the leaves die, or how flowers appear.
But I will be looking out my window.