Member-only story
Sitting on my mother-in-law’s couch watching the Emma Watson version of “Beauty and the Beast,” my throat tightens as the theme song comes on. Tears loom.
It’s something about the deep romance of the moment. We think the Beast is dead, and Belle tells him she loves him, and the world turns warm again and all things come back to life. The snow stops, the sun rises over the land, and all the candlesticks and clocks and cupboards are people again. The beast opens his eyes and is lifted up into a golden swirl, he loses his fur and his horns, and he becomes himself again only so much better.
Something tired, aching, lonely and worn down in me watched that scene.
I tried to remember the last time I put on perfume and really cared about how I looked — in that nervous I-hope-I-hope way. Seventeen years anyway. I miss it. I miss life as a person who might someday be a great catch.
Come to think of it, though, I am a great caught.
To be honest, I have a blessed life. My wife’s love for me forms the fabric of everything that holds my world together. Our relationship is robust and full of grace. We give each other room to grow (and we have grown, both of us). We have good times, we travel, we challenge each other, we make each other laugh, and now (finally!) we share a puppy — not her first…
