And then like that in an instant the picture is gone and with the jaunty skype signing out jingle I am taunted.
Will he leave me one day like this, alone and staring at a screen pale green? A hospital curtain, a laptop home page.
His mortality haunts me more than my own. He can convince me of his love, but not of its permanence, that it cannot be taken, given to another, or that with the demise of his body it won't fade and wither.
Let this run its time, let us have our fourscore, let me not be left without him, thinking what we could have done with more
time you teaser who now I would rush; but I crave more of you, promise me seventy, a home and a kitchen with voices aplenty.
I don't have anything to trade, I merely remain - yours, sincerely, your slave.
And the truth of curse mixed in with blessing makes me in simple awe of hope, a force-like-blood that is necessary and destructive all at once. It can flood the brain, choke the stomach but without it we are not even walking, much less talking when we get to our final destinations.
All there remains to reclaim is the ground on which I return to continually, when the blood pools and I sink, dizzy, or when it spills out unstaunched I fall to find that God loves, and they love, and I love in return.
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