Long ago, men went to sea, and women waited for them, standing on the edge of the water, scanning the horizon for the tiny ship. Now I wait for Henry. He vanishes unwillingly, without warning. I wait for him. Each moment that I wait feels like a year, an eternity. Each moment is as slow and transparent as glass. Through each moment I can see infinite moments lined up, waiting. Why has he gone where I cannot follow?

Love the world and yourself in it, move through it as though it offers no resistance, as though the world is your natural element.

Henry loves my hair almost as though it is a creature unto itself, as though it has a soul to call its own, as though it could love him back.

What is more basic than the need to be known? It is the entirety of intimacy, the elixir of love, this knowing.

When somebody is that patient, you have to feel grateful, and then you want to hurt them. Does that make any sense?

Now I wonder if it means that the future is a place, or like a place, that I could go to; that is go to in some way other than just getting older.

When it's over you look up: the world looks the same but you are somehow different and that feeling lingers for days.