My parents always looked like they loved being together. That's

In the hush of evening, when hearth-fires once stitched gold into the rafters and elders spoke in voices worn smooth by love, they taught that a child learns the weather of the heart by watching the sky of his parents. So speaks the comedian-sage, Billy Crystal: “My parents always looked like they loved being together. That’s what I took from them, and that’s how my wife and I are. I still feel like we’re dating.” In these few words flows an ancient current—the doctrine that affection is not merely felt, but beheld and absorbed, as spring soaks the seed. The gaze of a child upon two joined lives becomes scripture; it shapes what he dares to hope, and how he learns to keep joy burning through the long winters.

Consider how the phrase being together is more than proximity. It is the art of shared time, the sacrament of presence, the modest heroism of choosing the same table—again and again—when the world is wild with diversions. The parents who “looked like they loved” did not perform a pageant for the child’s benefit; rather, their daily tenderness leaked like light under a door. From this, the son received a map: that love is sustained not by spectacle, but by small constancies—a hand on the shoulder, a laugh left open so the other may enter, an argument ended with forgiveness before sleep.

And see the echo in his own house: “That’s how my wife and I are.” Here speaks the old law of inheritance, older than the law of land: what is modeled becomes what is mirrored. The young who witness steady affection learn to build it; the hearth they grew beside becomes the hearth they kindle. Thus, to “still feel like we’re dating” is no silliness but a discipline—a choice to keep wonder alive, to meet the familiar with ceremony, to tend the ember until it becomes a living flame. Dating is not a phase; it is a posture of the heart that refuses to grow dull-eyed in comfort.

Let us bring forth a story as the ancients would, with flesh and breath upon it. In a quiet coastal town lived Lucia and Mateo, married fifty years. Each Saturday, they walked the same pier. He carried a small paper bag of almonds; she tucked carnations into her hair. They told the same jokes, and laughed as though newly discovered. Once, a storm rose sudden, and the sea tossed spray like shattered glass. Mateo slipped on the wet boards. Lucia steadied him, then kissed his forehead, and said, “Caro, slow—we have all our lives.” A boy watching from the bait shop later told his friends, “They looked like they loved being together.” Years passed; the boy married. On Saturdays, he began walking the pier, almonds in hand. The script had entered his bones; he knew, without being taught, how to keep the weeks holy.

History hums this truth as well. Recall Odysseus and Penelope, not merely as figures of fidelity but of living companionship. Though distance stretched between them like a drawn bowstring, each tended the rituals of presence—he with yearning stories on foreign shores, she with threads unraveled at night to preserve a promise by day. When at last they stood together, the world called it reunion; but what truly occurred was recognition: two who had practiced being together even while apart. Their son, Telemachus, learned from that steadfast fire what a home could mean. So too the child in Crystal’s telling: the hearth he witnessed formed the hearth he keeps.

What lesson is carried to us across time? That love is a craft and must be practiced; that being together is a daily vow, not a single, loud proclamation. The heart learns by imitation. If you would give your children gold, let them see you choose each other—publicly and privately—in tenderness and truth. Let them behold arguments bridged, chores shared, fatigue met with gentleness, laughter invited to sit at the table as a welcome guest. Such sights shape a lineage more enduring than land or title.

Let the counsel be plain as the morning bell: First, schedule your together time and guard it as a temple appointment—walks, simple meals, a shared book read aloud. Second, praise your wife or your beloved in the hearing of others; let your words be ladders, not weights. Third, keep the rite of dating—write notes, dress for dinner at home, ask new questions of the familiar face, as explorers sounding a beloved coast. Fourth, repair swiftly when hurt is done; apology is the cool water that prevents a small spark from becoming a field of ash. Finally, teach by showing: let children and neighbors see that affection is not embarrassment but honor.

Whoever you are, remember: the world is watching, and most closely are the eyes that will one day build homes of their own. Let them witness you loving, truly being together, so that from your life they may drink courage. For love, rightly seen, becomes love, rightly lived. And when years have gray-threaded your hair, may you still say with a smile, “We still feel like we’re dating,” and may those who watch you carry that bright inheritance into the next dawn.