There is no way to write of love without falling into cliché. It makes sense, of course, as it permeates
everything we are, everything we do, in some way or another. It is the deepest of human drives to want to
feel wanted, to be needed. I once read
that for infants, when something exits their line of sight, it literally ceases
to exist for them. Maybe some vestige of
that lingers in all of us as we grow older and reason tells us that it isn’t
true. Maybe we’re terrified, in some
dark corner of our psyches, that if someone doesn’t remember us, doesn’t miss
us when we’re gone or think of us in our absence, that we’ll cease to be. And how could we ever prove it wasn’t true?
So we seek out love.
We seek to make a connection in the lives of others, to find an anchor, in their hearts and memories, that will keep us safely in
the world. If we’re very lucky, we find
a handful of people who’ll carry us through their lives, a few more who will carry
us in their hearts once our roads have parted, and all we have to do in return
for that most astonishing of gifts is give it back, to bring them with us, to
keep them here.
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