If I listen to the quiet stirrings of my heart, to the restlessness
that prevents me from spending days here like days there, I find the
things I can’t take with me: the way my mother feels, fragile and
strong, when I give her a hug; the glee and tension that underlie my
father’s stories; the lightness of my cat as she bounces up, her
weight as she settles in; the laughter and sorrow of friends over the
things we do not write; the people who have known me forever.
All these I have missed and will miss again. But seeing them, at least
I can try not to miss them while I’m here.
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