October 23, 2011

I'd never have believed I'd see a wife of mine doting on a child of mine. It still amazes me every time I think of it. I'm writing this in part to tell you that if you ever wonder what you've done in your life, and everyone does wonder sooner or later, you have been God's grace to me, a miracle. You may not remember me very well at all and it may seem to you no great thing to have been the good child of an old man in a shabby little town you will no doubt leave behind. If only I had words to tell you.
-- marilynne robinson, gilead

there are many, many moments when I still think, if only we could just take a walk together; if only I could turn to you, my hair blowing in my face, and smile, and laugh. and make you laugh. I think, I wish we could dance in your living room. I wish we could tell jokes to each other, each sillier than the last. I wish I could say, 'you know what we should do?' and then do it. I wish I could sing to you. I wish we could arm wrestle. I would lose, as always.

in almost every way, life is so much better now than it's been in a long time. there is (or will be) enough money. there are friends. in general, I manage to be happy. I needed the bottom to drop out to get here, and although it's hard, I forgive myself for that. because it was so hard to climb out. I think there was no other way.

there are days that are still such a struggle. today is one. I don't know how to verbalize my continued sorrow. figaro is so beautiful, and here I am in rehearsal, under the flood lights, the violins sawing mercilessly away, and I've had to leave once already to cry in the bathroom. because I can't just flip whatever internal on/off switch I sometimes wish existed. it's just -- god, I wish we could play. this is the thing I want to give to you. this is the hard side of happiness. to be here without you. I keep trying to give it to you anyway. I try because there are no other words in the world I can use to tell you.

I wish I could leave you certain of the images in my mind, because they are so beautiful that I hate to think they will be extinguished when I am. Well, but again, this life has its own mortal loveliness. And memory is not strictly mortal in its nature, either. It is a strange thing, after all, to be able to return to a moment, when it can hardly be said to have any reality at all, even in its passing. A moment is such a slight thing, I mean, that its abiding is a most gracious reprieve.
-- gilead

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