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August 4, 2012
There's a reason that kind of love is labeled "unconditional". It doesn't flinch if you're the emotional equivalent of threadbare pajama bottoms and a stretched-out T-shirt. If its fold its arms and present its back in ephemeral frustration or anger, and the arms then reach out and beckon, perhaps still confused but steeped with unquestioning concern. It doesn't hear, it listens. It doesn't see, it looks. It zips its lip and offers quiet presence. It offers apology not to ease its own burden but to relieve the other's pain. And it doesn't mind that it's the subject of corny prose.