How long do we have relationships that exist over far reaches of geographic space? Is there a time limit? I draw out plans to visit New York, Chicago, Philadelphia. Maybe stepping off the plane will buy me some room on this decaying timeline. The start of the timeline may be “I wonder how they’re doing,” but the middle is so many looping iterations of “do they think of me like I think of them?” Eventually the strongest memories get overplayed, wearing down their most potent effects on my ability to assure myself “we both still care.” We both still care, though.
The end of the timeline isn’t loss, but faith. It’s faith that these loops are still playing themselves across time and space, maybe without any attention from me or anyone else on the other side of the country. But they keep playing because they are —or were— important. Maybe they still are. Maybe they’re still beautiful, too. I follow our shared memories wanderingly, such as down a lingering path. Countless loops, beautiful (almost) every time around, make me think “I hope I see you soon.”
I hope I see you soon.
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