So it is at age thirty-five that I am at last ready to write my own mythology of love. It is not based on legends of white dresses and rings and bouquets; it is rather the comfort of what is shared with another soul. It need not be any kind of romance; it is simply the bonds that we form, the way our lives interlace with one another, the unexpected ways we find to care. My first trip to Uganda, I visited a health clinic where a mother had brought her fragile, ill daughter, wearing a lavender dress and looking like an angel. I spent less than an hour in that clinic, but those thirty to forty
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