I was never the kid who liked PB&J. I disliked jelly. Didn’t matter the flavor, the company, the season – I wasn’t having it. I was the odd one out, complaining that it wasn’t a good combination.
But I wasn’t going to be deprived this sandwich staple. Nu-uh. There had to be another way. And there was.
Mom would put honey instead of jelly.
Peanut butter and honey.
Every day, I’d open my brown paper bag lunch and see a PB&H staring back at me.
I found what works, I’d tell nonbelievers. I figured out what I like.
You were everything I liked rolled up into one beautiful, intelligent, hilarious human. You were the honey, the H I’d been hoping existed for my PB. The combination that tasted good, that was satisfying, all the things the right pairing can do.
We were the first thing that finally made sense to me. The first time I understood that love was meant to feel unconditional and present. It was surround sound. No matter where I went, you were with me. And I was with you. And we were together, unequivocally.
When I was too low, you brought me higher. When you were scared, I turned on a light. When we were both spiraling, something about our union found balance.
I haven’t found another H yet. Someone who complements me.
Maybe we only get one in this lifetime. Maybe I should just be happy I ever got a chance with the real thing.