1944 (of light and love)

Truth is like light. Duration is of no consequence. A darken cave of ten times ten thousands years is just as bright of light as one continuously lit. Love is this way. I knew Virgil for just a few days, yet in the last forty years I have never known a love as true, as real, as enduring. And I think not of the loss, of his death, of that snowy December day, of all that was never to be, but rather the blessing of holding what few ever hold, for a heart once lit in love is never not lit, never not warm. And the warmness is not of memory or imagination. His life within me, decade after decade has been something eternal, forever present. So, in this way, I live alone. For who can sit across the table and not think I’m insane.