Member-only story
I love the old men.
So what of it?
When I was 19, I fell in love with a man 31 years my senior. And he loved me back. We lived together for two-and-a-half years and stayed close until his death at 83 last year. I left him because I wanted to have children some day. Also because in truth I was in awe of him. I felt I could never quite get my feet under me while with him. He was gifted, an artist. He was sexy and handsome. He was ethical, pristine. To me, he was divine. I loved him deeply.
But I was too young, and too awestruck. I had one little shelf in the dining room that I used to collect things on. Little things like seed pods or dried flowers or a postcard someone sent me. Somehow, I felt that was the only space available to me. This man I loved had sublime taste in design. He was a gifted architect and sculptor. Everything in his house was beautiful, harmonious, perfect. There was nothing for me to do there. Nothing but to bask in his love.
And it wouldn’t have been a bad life.
When I lost him to cancer last year, the pain was acute.
The truth is, I lacked courage.
But, it’s also true I wanted to have children. He’d had his chance, and his time. He didn’t want more children. I didn’t want to give this up. And it was hard to have a boyfriend so much older. It was hard to socialize with…
