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A words trier, a stormy sea traveler, a jazz lover, a painting admirer, a poetry parser, a gig addict, a scent seeker, a love inventor, a harmony balancer. Or perhaps, a philanthropy practitioner, a knowledge seeker, a common grounds searcher, a truth resolver. Otherwise, a short story writer, an independent journalist and a translator (i.e. tiny and frail girl) who lives in deeds, not years. In thoughts, not breaths. In feelings, not in figures on a dial. And who also counts time by heartthrobs. Because most lives who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

I'VE THOUGHT


In the past I have thought that mourning is a span of time after someone’s leaving, a period of healing and coming to peace with things. I know now, upon your leaving, that mourning is not related to time. Rather, it is in everyday events or places that one mourns. It is in flashes of memory of moments shared or conversations had. It is in the remembrance of odd yet charming personality traits, precious moments where knowledge was passed or affection rendered with no cost. Mourning is when you replay moments that were long forgotten and yearn for a chance to add one more word. It is the smell of an old jacket or the vivid picture in your mind of their hands and face. It is the fondness of a place where you both once stood or a place where you last felt their skin. It is the thought of you on their knee or rubbing their back as you kiss their cheek. It is every corner that you turn that you mourn your loved one who is gone. You mourn them every time you whisper “I Love You” and “I’m Sorry” as you picture how you saw them last. It is the act of giving thanks to the Good Lord for your time with them while petitioning for strength to mend.


Time is not relevant except that mourning spans throughout it.

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