There are people who love, and people who stay, and those two are not always the same. Sometimes, they are. Sometimes, you can’t say for sure. Time is a current, and where it flows cannot always be predicted. Expecting people to stay does not shield you from disappointment. Neither does anticipating the loss soften the blow.
Here is what we know: whichever way we face, forward or back, there is a horizon, hazy in the distance. A dot in which all things disappear. It will never be clearer: the past wears away until even our memories are swallowed up in it. The future isn’t even ours yet, not even fully constructed. If time will tell, right now, it is silent. All we can be sure of is what can be said of the spot where we’re standing.
Here is what we know. Then will one day slip away from us. There is a bridge we have yet to cross. But here, here, is a certainty, however impermanent. And yes, it may be a moving target–different from instance to instance, evolving in between the moments we decide to examine the map, take out our compass–but at every point it allows us to quantify the truth, distill it to an observation that cannot be doubted away. It allows us to say, “Right now, you are here.”
There are people you love, and there people who stay, and those two are not always the same. But for now–for this great, fragile, terrible, wonderful now–for now they are. For now, you can reach out, hold back, hold hands, make plans and promises even if perhaps they are made only to be broken. Now is a license to be open, because, for now, you can be grateful, can still give and can take as much as you are still able. Can still say, as if tomorrow is not another day, or even if it is: “You are here.”
“You are here.”
“You are here.”