Dr. Vernon Brown, The Dunbar Shade Tree PHD
As I sit quietly in this well-wornout armchair, watching the golden light of evening spill across the garden we once tended together, I find myself reflecting—on us, on the years, and most of all, on the kind of love we came to know.
There was a time when love burned hot and fast for me, the way it does in youth. Back then, love felt like a flame you had to cup your hands around to keep alive. I remember the thrill, the chase, the aching want. It was beautiful in its own way – urgent, alive, bursting at the seams. But with time, I’ve come to understand that what we had – and still have – is something far richer.
You see, my darling, love in our senior years doesn’t flare with the wild abandon of youth. It doesn’t come crashing through the door like a summer storm. It doesn’t demand to be noticed. No, this love – our love – is quieter. But in that stillness, it holds an unfathomable depth. It’s not that it’s less passionate; it’s that the passion runs deeper, grounded in a thousand shared moments and quiet understandings.
When we are young, we often love the idea of someone – their laughter, the way they make our hearts race, the promise of what might be. But as we grow older, we begin to love the truth of someone. We love not just the parts that shine but also the parts that ache, that falter. In our younger years, I loved you for your smile, your strength, your dreams. But now, I love you for the way you’ve endured life’s trials, for the softness you’ve allowed in, for the wisdom behind your eyes.
We have lived. Oh, how we have lived.
We have seen joy so expansive it filled our lungs with light. We have known sorrow deep enough to hollow out entire weeks. And yet through it all, we stayed. We remained. Our love didn’t burn out; it matured. It grew into something with roots.
There is something profoundly intimate about aging together. The way we’ve come to know each other’s rhythms – the way you reach for my hand in the dark, not because you’re afraid, but because that’s where it belongs. The way we no longer need to fill silences with words, because the silence is no longer empty. It’s full of understanding, of shared history, of deep, abiding connection.
When I think about the passion of our youth, I remember breathless kisses and sleepless nights. But when I think of our love now, I think of the nights you rubbed warmth into my aching knees, the mornings you brought me tea before I could even open my eyes, the quiet way you sit beside me when words fail. Passion like that is not lesser – it is sacred.
I’ve watched time etch lines into your face, silver your hair, soften your walk. And somehow, I love you more. Not despite the changes, but because of them. Every line tells a story, every ache a shared journey. We’ve earned this love. We’ve tended to it like a garden, through all seasons. It has bloomed in the spring of our youth, and now it glows like autumn leaves – more vibrant for the time that has passed.
When we are young, love feels infinite because we are naive to the reality of time. But as we age, love becomes precious because we know it is finite. There is an urgency – not of lust, but of appreciation. We cherish moments more deeply. A hand held at the end of the day means more when you’ve known what it is to live without it.
Remember when we used to say, “forever”? We didn’t understand it then. But now, as our hands grow older together, I realize that forever was never about time. It was about presence. It was about the way our hearts chose each other again and again, every day, through every trial, through every change.
Young love is a beautiful promise. But senior love is the fulfillment of that promise.
There is courage in the love we share. It is a brave thing, to keep choosing someone as they change. As they slow. As they struggle. And what a miracle it is, that you have continued to choose me. Even on the hard days. Especially on the hard days.
Our love is no longer about what we can become – it’s about what we have become. And how we’ve done it together.
We’ve grown roots that run beneath every conversation, every glance, every shared silence. We’ve built something resilient. Something unshakable. Not in the grand gestures, but in the quiet ones. The ones that never make it into songs or movies—the setting of the table, the folded laundry, the soft goodnight. Those are the gestures that define a lifetime.
And in those simple acts, our love burns bright. Not like a firework—but like an ember that has been carefully tended, never burning out, only glowing stronger with time.
So when people talk of the passion of youth, I smile. Because I know a different kind of passion. One that isn’t loud, but fierce. One that has weathered decades, not days. One that has survived disappointment, distance, illness, grief – and grown more beautiful through it all.
I want to thank you—for growing old with me. For allowing me the sacred privilege of witnessing your life unfold, year by year. For being the constant when everything else has changed.
I used to think the most romantic moments were the grand ones—the sweeping declarations, the wild adventures. But now, I know better.
Romance is you helping me with my coat.
It’s you knowing which book will make me cry.
It’s the warmth of your palm against mine when we sit quietly by the window.
It’s this life we’ve built—not perfect, but real. And, my love, so very deep.
If I could go back and tell my younger self one thing about love, it would be this: Wait. Just wait. The best part is yet to come.
Because nothing compares to this – this quiet, enduring, soul-deep love that knows your scars and loves you not despite them, but because of them.
You are my home, now more than ever. And the love I feel for you now is not a flicker. It is a fire that has weathered every storm, still glowing, still warm – lighting the way, even as we walk a little slower now.
Thank you for this love.
Thank you for every year.
Thank you for being my forever.
With all that I am,
Yours, always.
Vernon
p.s. Meet me at the Sugar Shack
