Love.
The word is simple enough, yet each person has a different concept of its meaning. I, myself, have many.
When I was a child, love was the sound of my father's violin. It was the warmth of the professor's laugh and the smell of Mamma's famous soup. Love was simple in those days, freely given and freely taken.
I loved the Angel when he appeared. Even after so many years, I cannot say how I feel about the man he became. Perhaps that was the man he always was, and I was too trusting to realize it.
We sang together, created harmonies to make a chill run up my spine. His voice was unearthly, and mine became a complement to his. There was fire and passion in those duets. I would not claim otherwise. Simply another type of love.
I was young, then. When he fell at my feet and groveled before me, he spoke of love. I do not doubt that he meant those words, but I wonder if he understood the meaning.
There are winter days where the sun is little more than a suggestion, a faint glow behind pearl gray clouds. In the aftermath of my father's death, I was that winter sun. Erik's music was the first thing to shift the clouds. For that, I will always be grateful to him.
But Erik himself had lived in darkness so long that the barest glow of sunlight seemed like the blaze of dawn.
A winter sun cannot sustain a crop. Surely he knew this, but he was oblivious to the thickening clouds around us. My world grew darker and, by extension, so did his.
In the end, he relinquished his only shred of hope. There were again words of love, of a sort I can barely fathom. For a single moment, he was a flame in our mutual darkness, and then he was gone.
I have said that a winter sun cannot sustain a crop. The same is true of a flame. He told me, once, that there is music which consumes its listeners. His love was much the same.
And yet, flame can prepare a field for a new seeding. It was in this newly seared earth that Raoul planted his garden.
Raoul brings light and warmth to all he touches. He is the farmer and the summer sun all at once, creating a place for new growth and nurturing budding seedlings.
He is a new definition of love, and one I did not realize I needed.
Love is the way he takes my hand whenever he is excited. Love is a vicomte choosing to make his home in a modest house instead of a grand estate, simply because he feels it will please his wife. Love is in the meals we share each night and the welcoming arms after a tiresome day.
Great operas are written about turmoil, and about love at its most tumultuous. I much prefer the quiet moments. A thousand arias could not surpass the look of joyous surprise on Raoul's face as our daughter took her first steps. The swell of an orchestra cannot compare to watching him teach our son to read.
More simply put, nothing means more than Raoul. He is, at this moment, running across the beach of Perros with our children in pursuit. When he catches my eye, he is every bit the dashing suitor who came to my dressing room all those years ago.
A gust of wind catches my scarf and I let the breeze take it. Raoul gives me a rakish grin before he dives into the waves to retrieve it. He is soaking wet when he emerges and presents me with the sodden scarf. His reward is a kiss and I give it freely.
Love is happiness. Love is growth.
Love is Raoul.