When I was seven years old, I was waiting in the lobby of the dentist office where my mom worked. I can’t remember if I was there for the day or a simple teeth cleaning, but I remember the quiet and reading the books resting in a wicker basket against the wall. I finished one and stood up to switch it out for a new one, and my chest began to burn and vibrate. My breath caught and my vision went dark around the edges as if I were staring through a momentary tunnel. And then I blinked, and a thought dropped into my brain that was so matter of fact it settled into my bones and stretched into the places reserved for truth: one day, I would meet someone. He would be my air, and he would be my roots, and loving him would feel like truth.
I sighed, my muscles relaxing into my very first experience with knowing. I didn’t know it then, but somewhere in Texas there was an eight year old dark haired boy who would grow into the man I call Love who has time and time again set me free and rooted me into my knowing. And I was right. Loving him feels like the Truest thing I know.