I spent some time writing a response to a poem that someone had written on commitment-- then lost it on this wonky site.
I'm learning to copy and save all my longer responses. This one was worthwhile, I think. Here it is with no apology for its content or its being prose.
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The Other Woman
In so much of this thinking, I disagree with you. Love involves so much more than commitment. My parents were married almost 60 years. They were not in love for a long time toward the end though they were committed and attached. I was around to watch the steady loss with only the family loves and interests held in their surroundings-- to keep them sane?
I watched the woman who came to my father's wake alone, weeping quietly by his casket. I knew there was a deep love between them even though they were both "committed" to another. My mother, as always, distracted by the "social," the appearance of it. My father's honors were her claim to any personal worth-- His well-known name, his courage and heroics, his whole-hearted service to others, his children his wealth...these were the things she wanted from her commitment to him. Too busy with her dementia at the end and all the attention lavished on her, my mother seemed to have lost my father years before. I do not blame her. I think we live too long for most of our “commitments.”
Truth be told, my father had several women latch on to him in their loneliness and need to have their cars fixed and stuff a woman has no knowledge of, a widow and a divorcee, one unhappily married. I know they loved him too--and in a sense, he them. Not sure if there was anything physical between them. I would not have blamed them though. But commitment-- certainly, yes. They were often at the house, devoted in their care of him in the worst crisis of his life, caring for us, supporting my mother through it too. One knitted sweaters for us, gave me her family's violin; the other left us everything she owned. My mother accepted this, unquestioning. We used to joke about my father's "other wives."
This last woman-- was the smile of his old age, his Red Sox and drinking buddy, the one with whom he shared affection, knowing looks; the porch, their yards, the lawn chairs, coarse jokes-- a drunken wheelbarrow ride home, and all their troubles, aches and pains. My mother's church and chatter, puttering, annoyed him. This last woman kept him company. Their love--so deep, so entire.... I could see it in their eyes when they were together despite their 30-year difference in age.
Now by his casket, propriety could not allow her grief its full expression. Only family ordered flowers, met after-- for "the dinner,” unrolled the pall over his body, paid the last tributes by his grave." She was treated with loving appreciation as a faithful, loving neighbor. My sisters hugged her, whispered grief. When my turn came, I hope she heard me, felt me--as I hugged her, repeating, “J_, I know, I know...."
I know I've gone on here too long, and I'm sorry. I write all this to say that whatever commitment is, I don't think we understand the half of it.... Relationships, faithfulness, expectations, decorum-- fall apart in the face of true love-- which never needs to explain itself.