To be touched by loss is to be forever altered.
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To be touched by loss is to be forever altered.
Aap kahan thi tab se...?
Sab khairiyat se to hai?
thori zindagi mein uljhi hui thi. alhamdullilah, sambhal rahi hoon. duaon mein yaad rakhiye.
Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its colour.
—W. S. Merwin
I want to spend my days wrapped up in the minutiae of his ordinary and my nights intertwined with his spirit.
The dishwasher is a peculiar appliance. Though it helps reduce the burden of manually washing each dish, cup, and spoon by hand, one must still load and unload each item by hand. It feels like a metaphor for the way connection plays out. You meet someone. You talk on text, maybe a call, in person. But until you find the rhythm that weaves you both together, it is a step toward the other, one at a time...
That's how I met him.
An ordinary day. An ordinary moment.
I only had to round the corner to be met with the most sheepish smile, as if I'd caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. The little girl in me saw the little boy in him, which I didn't realize until today. There was no posturing, no pretense, no ego. It was him as he is. A man emptying a dishwasher in the middle of a Wednesday on the busy 15th floor.
I couldn't have walked away even if I tried. It felt like an injustice, so I did the only thing I could think of. I offered to help.
Even then, he didn't put the burden on me. He made it a shared activity, and I felt taken care of, strangely. He was curious about me. He asked the questions. I rambled in my stupor, of course.
I remember standing behind him while he washed his hands and suddenly feeling overwhelmed. I still don't know what happened. Did he look like someone I know? He was tall. Handsome too. Is that why I noticed him?
No.
That didn't feel right.
I felt seen. As me.
I felt soft. As soft as I dream of being.
For a man who exuded such strength, he carried a softness that felt strangely familiar. I think, through him, I met a part of myself I haven't been able to reach.
I walked away not even remembering his name, but carrying him with me.
I walked away not even remembering his name but carrying him with me.
He calls you love like it’s your name.
Even though I’m watching Matt’s videos on a loop (so funny) and this little guy is next to me… I’m so * sad, dude…
https://www.instagram.com/reel/DJZu3ZJTcjM/
beautiful. thank you for sharing!
Maybe that’s what all storytelling is for. To let us practice being human before life requires it. We don’t just watch movies and plays, we don’t just read books; we try them on. And when reality finally arrives, we recognize the shape of it. Our hearts have already practiced.
—Megan Falley, Don’t Skip the Sadness
— Warsan Shire (via lunamonchtuna)
The Golden Journey #2, The Saturday Evening Post story illustration // Stanley M. Zuckerberg
“We are the girls with anxiety disorders, filled appointment books, five-year plans. We take ourselves very, very seriously. We are the peacemakers, the do-gooders, the givers, the savers. We are on time, overly prepared, well read, and witty, intellectually curious, always moving… We pride ourselves on getting as little sleep as possible and thrive on self-deprivation. We drink coffee, a lot of it. We are on birth control, Prozac, and multivitamins… We are relentless, judgmental with ourselves, and forgiving to others. We never want to be as passive-aggressive as our mothers, never want to marry men as uninspired as our fathers… We are the daughters of the feminists who said, ‘You can be anything,’ and we heard, ‘You have to be everything.’”
—Courtney Martin’s—Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters