Friday, March 22, 2024

We Shall Not Pass This Way Again

Earlier, we were watching a movie about a rugby team whose plane crashed in the Andes Mountains, all of them dying and cold and hungry, and I looked over at my wife sitting on the couch, the cats on the other side of the room, curled on their respective chairs in the way that they do (small and white and perfectly whorled in still little vortices of fur and pink skin), and I realized, or remembered, that this exact moment will never happen again, both of us warm here, relatively healthy, fiercely in love and still learning how to live. There may be other moments like this one, but this moment is here, now, and I am lucky, lucky, lucky to be here for it, with her hand on my knee and her love like a bright little coal, burning in my chest. 

So now Katie’s in the shower, washing the day off of her, while I sit at the screen and think about dying. Not in a morbid way, bemoaning my fate, waiting for the inevitable veil of endless night to descend or whatever, but in a sort of curious way, the way a person on a high hill might watch a storm approach from (hopefully) a long way off.  

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