Riding on Love

Some weeks simply feel different.

This has been one of them.

It's been full of music, memories, and love. The kind that sneaks up on you when you aren't looking and reminds you that life is richer than you realized.

On July 7, Ralph and I celebrated our eighth wedding anniversary. We met later in life, after many joys, sorrows, and lessons had already shaped us. By the time we found each other, we'd lived enough life to recognize what mattered most.

We're very different people, and that's one of my favorite things about us. We also love many of the same things. We love to travel, listen to live music, enjoy good food, and seek out quiet moments together. We both spend time searching for peace, but we arrive there differently. Ralph finds it while fishing. I usually find it by closing my eyes, breathing deeply, and listening. Different paths, same destination. Somehow, we both find it in each other's eyes.

That thought stayed with me a few days later when we traveled to Austin, Texas, for the Outlaw Music Festival.

I wanted to see Willie Nelson while I still had the chance. We were also excited to see Billy Strings, Sheryl Crow, Wilco, and Stephen Wilson Jr. Stephen was the artist I had been looking forward to most. We missed the beginning of his set because of a ticket mishap, but what happened next made the whole day unforgettable.

As we walked toward our seats, Ralph spotted a few empty ones much closer to the stage.

"Let's go sit there," he said.

I was certain someone would stop us.

No one did.

During Stephen's performance, he climbed off the stage and walked right up our aisle. I was only a few feet away. I recorded a short video before heading back to my seat, but Ralph gently pulled me aside because Stephen was coming back down the aisle behind me.

Then he stopped.

He turned toward a woman standing in the crowd. She stepped closer, and he played just for her.

I hit record again.

I didn't know who she was. I only knew I was witnessing love. Whether it was the love between a husband and wife or simply the love of music, it didn't matter. It was beautiful.

After the song ended, Ralph suggested I tell her I'd captured the moment in case she'd like a copy. At first I hesitated because I didn't want to interrupt or seem strange. Then I thought, if that were me, I'd treasure that video forever.

So I introduced myself.

She smiled.

"That's my husband."

She told me he'd never sung to her during a concert before. Later, when I looked her up so I could tag her in the video, I discovered she was Leigh Nash from Sixpence None the Richer.

That somehow made the moment even sweeter.

The video eventually reached more than twenty thousand people.

What made me happiest wasn't the number. It was knowing that thousands of people had been invited to stand inside a moment of love.

That realization followed me home.

Not every story I write is a romance. Some are about family. Some are about healing. Some are about forgiveness. Some are about finding your way home. But every story I write is, in one way or another, about love.

The next morning, while talking with my mentor, she pointed to the sign on the bookshelf behind me.

"It says, 'Love.'"

Then I noticed the sticker on my monitor.

Love.

I have shirts that say it, a sweatshirt, and even a bumper sticker.

Apparently I've surrounded myself with that one little word.

Maybe that's why I notice it everywhere I go.

I love witnessing love almost as much as I love feeling it.

Maybe even more.

Years ago, while earning my MFA, I created a presentation called Why It's Important to Talk to Old People. One of the interviews I recorded was with my mom and my stepfather, Mike. They told me the story of how they met and fell in love.

At the time, I thought I was simply completing an assignment.

I had no idea I was preserving one of my family's greatest treasures.

After Mike passed away in 2022, my mom asked for that recording. Hearing him tell their love story in his own voice became a refuge for her. A year and a half later, she joined him. Now, when I miss them both, I return to that conversation.

Their anniversary was July 8. They would have celebrated thirty-one years of marriage.

One detail still amazes me.

I was exactly the same age when I married Ralph as my mom was when she married Mike.

Love has a funny way of circling through generations.

That recording became the first entry in The Love Atlas, a growing collection of real stories that remind us love is still changing lives every day.

It also brought me back to my own writing.

This week I reopened the very first novel I ever wrote, the one that never made it beyond my computer. I spent days excavating old files and managed to salvage nine of the original thirty-two chapters. While digging through them, I realized pieces of another unfinished novel belonged inside this one.

I don't know whether this is finally the season to finish that story. Maybe it is. Maybe it's simply another step toward "The End." Either way, I'm grateful to be back inside it.

As I reread those pages, I noticed something. My writing has changed. I've grown. But my themes haven't.

They've always been about love, healing, and transformation.

This time, though, another theme revealed itself.

Inheritance.

The things we carry, both seen and unseen, and the things we pass from one generation to the next.

This Kentucky novel exists because Mike told stories.

Now I'm telling them.

Maybe that's what stories have always done.

They keep love moving forward.

Lately, I've also been making lists of my dream life. Not because I'm unhappy. Quite the opposite. Many of the feelings I've always hoped for already fill my days: peace, gratitude, purpose, and love.

The dreams that remain are mostly adventures.

One that keeps returning is an Airstream.

I picture Ralph, our dogs, and me wandering the country, discovering little towns, finding local restaurants, listening to people's stories, and preserving moments of love wherever we find them.

Maybe we'll meet someday at your favorite diner.

Maybe you'll tell me how you met the love of your life.

Or your best friend.

Or the person who changed everything.

Those stories deserve to be remembered. In fact, I think preserving them may have been what I've been trying to do all along.

If you have a story you'd like to share, I'd love to hear it.

Every love story begins somewhere.

Perhaps one day, yours will find its place inside The Love Atlas.

With all my love and gratitude,

Emma and Em