Violet’s Journey to Love Rediscovery

It had been years since the last time that Violet Dawson had managed to see her smile.

Before, Violet was the girl who sang to herself as she folded clothes and observed new patterns in the skies each day; nowadays, she could hardly even see herself in the silence of the house, strangled by her laughter and doused her spirit. Cole, the man she married, had once brought dandelions home, treating her to kisses over every finger. After years, these fingers had accustomed themselves to quivering under glares and banging doors.

Only when she dared to take her first steps did her voice become a trembling whisper, and her eyes were filled with the weariness of unrelieved nights without sleep. The divorce finalized took years, which was unbearable for both of them. He departed without more than a goodbye, grabbing the coffee machine, the dog, and all the warmth of his presence.

Later, Violet lived in quiet isolation for four years.

The days consisted of paying bills and re-arranging her houseplants while idly watching out for empty mugs on kitchen counters. Her sad feelings were not just about him – it was about the woman she had become – lost in the years during which he spent his time elsewhere. Loneliness wasn’t dramatic. It was a quiet thief. It worked its way in each second, making the mere cooking seem oddly bland.

She tried dating. Once, twice, five times. Men whose banter has been well perfected, if they have even done this alone. Men who stepped up and said, “You’re not like ‘the others’.” A man had once asked her if she cooked as well as his mother did. He channeled much of the evening recounting tales about his fantasy football league. She took the app off for a week and then reinstalled it two weeks later. When something about the app made her wonder, perhaps a jackpot might finally fall her way this time.

And then there was Eli.

He posted a picture of his dog — a lopsided mutt whose ear hung down. His message read: “This is Maple. She has an opinion on all my music selections and appears to believe that socks are taste better than average. Do you want to go with me for the next walk with Maple”?

Violet almost didn’t respond. The sheer ridiculousness of Maple’s mannerisms and some limp-wristed confidence on the part of Eli brought forth a “Sure :).”

Their first walk involved more than two hours.

He defied the classic image of someone interesting and well-groomed. He was lost for language in the very moments he got emotional. He uttered that he didn’t like olives in public. At age six, he had a minor eye scar from a bad Lego mishap. He never forced Violet to change the way they were. Tender, cautious, but still alive.

They were not aiming at falling in love. They identified themselves as “low-commitment comfort buddies.” They exchanged their favorite playlists and alternated with each other, choosing takeout locations. One month later, Violet had her shoulder surgically removed, and in a state of grogginess from the medicine and with pudding cups in proximity, she texted Eli: “I think I love you. Or pudding. Maybe both.”

He replied: “I love you too. And pudding. But mostly you.”

It wasn’t fireworks. It was a slow glow. A slight comfort that prepared the path for healing.

Seeing his coat in her usual spot on her couch and his toothbrush along with hers, two months later, Violet offered, “Why don’t you just move in?”

Eli blinked, stunned, then smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Nowadays, every morning has become a tender surprise. That is how they twirled around the kitchen set to the forgettable reels of Motown music. Every dispute boiled down to selecting a film. He laughed until she was drenched in seltzer, giggling so much it sounded almost like a giggle. He kissed her as if she were fragile, not in fear but out of admiration.

He never made promises that he would keep them if he didn’t believe. Whenever she would silently ask herself, “Will you always be here with me, even if …”– He would always pull her closer, his words barely above a whisper close to her temple, “Not even if the world ends.”

Violet Dawson found herself again, not with him, but by his side.

She stopped often to look into the mirror, bringing the edges of her mouth down to see if her smile had survived.

And it did.

The casual moments, with coffee in hand, walking alongside, and hugging them ad hoc, piece together a lifetime's worth of sideways moments and stopped watches. It was similar to how every traffic jam and sleepless night was a trail, leading her to this very start—this quiet, extraordinary love.

Misfortunes often come unexpectedly and quietly; great miracles do so softly, with little pomp and noise.

At other times, they come by the handful: a dog leash, an additional toothbrush, and love, which feels like returning home to where life rightly belongs.