I believe love is like pickled pig feet.
He was arrogant, stubborn, ambitious, opinionated, and absolutely irresistible because he adored me and loved me unconditionally—no strings attached—except a few threads like mandatory Sunday dinner at his mother’s house, where he would drop off dirty clothes and pick up his clean laundry.
He was a writer who worked hard for $150 a week. He never whined or complained about money or that he was born with a painful disease called sickle cell. Yet his revolutionary spirit railed against the system that birthed bigots, poverty, and simple-minded religions. Yup, he was a handful, and I reveled in his passionate pursuits.
