We meet at goodbye and carry with us the grief of having only known each other briefly, for several years. This is how connections are made, in retrospect, where the heart is flooded with fleeting moments of joy, right now.
We recall the past to the feel in the present, the death of a future. Relationships are our only link.
To begin again means to start over, newborn, but that is not what we are doing here. We are moving on, a preposition that means attached to or unified with, the way a picture frame hangs on a wall or a coat rests on a hook because indeed, we are still supported by each other; an adverb that suggests a covering, like putting on ski pants or snow shoes, as if, once worn, become an extension of ourselves; an adjective for operating or occurring because we are very much taking place, albeit elsewhere, and yet the light is and will always be on.
We don’t really end. We are simply out of sight. We have walked so far into the horizon it appears that we cease to exist, but we are never truly beyond reach. Just (re)call. That is how fast our hearts can travel.
Inspired Scribble 