The Love Label

Every morning, the Wall Street Journal arrives. Monica notices her name printed next to her address. She peels off the label to reduce the potential for identity theft. She does not like the label.

The New York Times writes about the "best psychologist in New York". He does not label his patients with terms such as "schizophrenic". He has found that patients are accommodating and will develop characteristics of a diagnosis that they previously didn't have. It is best to leave them without a diagnosis. Patients have fewer problems that way.

I label my relationship with Monica as "love". It is certainly the most powerful relationship of my life, and this is not a close call. So, I say "I love you." Monica says the same. People who see us see something between us. Friends and relatives, Sid or Rick or Donna, say they see "love". My neighbor, Mary, in El Cerrito, reads my e-mail explaining that "I am in love" and she writes back that this makes her day.

I stare in Monica's eyes. The color reminds me of the Hong Kong bay, a most beautiful shade of aqua. We go together to the talent show that passes for the local music scene. We do a crossword together. We cook. We clean. We are incredibly happy.

For a while, based on the newspapers, I resisted giving this feeling a label. The feeling I have is love.