and after so long a period of time, seeing her small hands resting calmly upon her thighs, with the flourishing flush within me wanting to reach out and hold them in mine. to clasp them in my own, give a gentle firm squeeze and never let go.
and after all this time, to know that i'll never reach out like that any more, and that i'll never hold them in that or in any other similar manner ever again; it devastates me.
the hands unheld, the heart most obviously not yet ready to move on.
tonight's homework:
if you are currently or soon to be in the presence of someone with which you hold dear to you and to your well-being, someone who has changed your life for the better, someone who inspires and reminds you of why you have faith in life and love and heart and it all, tell them.
tell them now before there are no more opportunities to tell. do it, you'll feel better that you did.
or not. but you'll have done it, and that's something.
---
juillet 16:
juillet 17:
juillet 18:
juillet 19:
juillet 20:
juillet 21:
---
2 comments:
Yes, Elie Wiesel writes, "Thus, the act of writing is for me often nothing more than the secret or conscious desire to carve words on a tombstone: to the memory of a town forever vanished, to the memory of a childhood in exile, to the memory of all those I loved and who, before I could tell them I loved them, went away."
Re your HW, I'm often sorry that it's so much harder to do than it seems.
---
so much harder.
and why after so much time spent growing from our frightened childhood into our current and adult courageous selves, does it never get any easier?
any yet, it doesn't cease to make it a necessary act.
---
Post a Comment