This post seems to have been written especially for me, though I know that’s because it came from a place inside the author that we all share. As she once said to me, “I’ve lived some of this. You were there beside me when I was going through it; I was there beside you when you were. We just didn’t know it at the time. The important part is, we know it now.” Thanks, Amy, for putting this out there. My tears are for all of us.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
They say you learn to be better at something, the more you do it. It becomes ingrained; it’s like breathing, or putting one foot in front of the other, or riding the proverbial bike. You learn something, you become quite good at that thing. You’re an old hand.
I don’t know if you ever learn to be good at losing things you love. You learn to be quieter about it, maybe; to not cry and wail in public, to keep the tears inside, to stiff-upper-lip the whole thing. It’s not seemly, you see. Not for adults. Children can cry over such things. Adults need to carry on. It is what we do. Or, at least, what we’re supposed to do.
Lose something every day. Accept…
View original post 1,082 more words