Journal, March 2005

This is what was in my journal from March of 2005.

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I remember -- we were small. We played together every day, laughing, talking, sitting, always side by side. We used to chase butterflies and moths, catching them gently, cupping our hands into one big sphere -- tiny wings against our tiny palms -- a heartbeat in my hand. When the tickling had passed, we pulled our palms apart, releasing the sweet butterfly to flit away, unsteady in its freedom. I had never held anything so soft, so fragile as those tiny beings -- their touch so gentle that at times I wasn't even certain they were there. Each beat was precious for its lightness.

And now we're grown -- and summer evenings we spend inside, cleaning, sitting, eating late, and gentle nights slip quietly past. I have not held a heartbeat in my hand since you passed the last one to me so many years ago.

And now, it seems, I know what empty means.

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