Do we know what we say? What we write? What we think? What we paint? What we etch into each other’s soul? He said I hold a big responsibility in my hands. I hold all of history and all of eternity. He said be wise, be well, good luck. I found myself wanting to believe him, his observations, his opinions, his theory that women don’t find themselves until their thirties. If correct, then I am just beginning to level out. Is that what this is? This loss, this death I feel, this death I want. Acceptance found in a random conversation up in the clouds. He had more faith in me than I often have in myself, honesty in the beauty and ignorance of a first impression. Perhaps we’d be wise to listen to our gut more, perhaps we’d see ourselves better if we woke up each morning and gave ourselves the gift of an optimistic first glance. He was kind and honest, and offered me a moment of connection. Those are the moments we live for, brief or prolonged. Did we have this? Can we remember it? I wish to walk away with grace. I wish to tie an invisible thread around your coat button. Someday I’d like to tug on it and see if it is still attached. Only when the time is right. He said maybe it still could be you. I laughed nervously. He said he loved a Whistler, because of it’s subtlety. I’d like to see that painting someday to understand what he meant.
2. 18. 2010