There is an art to missing people, I believe. It is quiet, it is active, and it is slow. The layering effect of it is staggering; the amount of energy a human has to love, and the expansive room humans have to invite more and more people into that space of nostalgia. Just when we believe we can’t do it again, we fall in love with people, we dote on moments, we make heroic even the most tempestuous of friendships in their absence. We expand and romanticize the briefest of possible flirtations. Each time we engage in hatred or discrimination we fight our most basic desire: to be home. To find resonance. To dwell in the familiar, whether it be tangible or no.
Two toddlers on a swing-set in a park don’t give a shit about Donald Trump. Or a hijab. Or a prayer. Or whiter teeth. Or even what they are named. They want to together feel that sensation in their bellies when they are suspended by the swing, inexplicably in the air, caught by physics in a moment of shared ecstasy. That’s as real as it gets. Distilled. While all of these other things come into play later, this one moment is the fodder for remembrance.
So, I’ve been remembering. And doting. And breathing through it: the painful birth process of change. It’s baffling, swollen, pulsing, and pushing, and it’s going to happen whether I like it or not.
I’m happy to say, my life has been full of swing-sets.