A many splendored thing
love itself is vast. . . . but loving someone is specific and even when they're gone, it's those little things that we remember; it's those things we miss:his voice, like a brook, a thrill of babbling water over rock, whether singing old lyrics from 70s songs or rhymes about exotic animals in spanish
the flutter of his fingers after he ate, meticulously neat--and yet not
his goofy, quirky expressions
his razor sharp intellect
his beautiful, open smile
the way he would call and respond to himself in his daily ardas
the way he always ended his practice with long time sun, even though he was by himself--always remembering his teacher and blessing him--amazing
the lightness of his touch
the smile in his eyes
the way he made me laugh
his devotion to the goddess
his mercurial, curious mind
the breadth of his understanding and compassion
the depth of his surety, his rightness
the willingness to change his mind
his broad shoulders, the curve of his spine
his sadness
his tenderness--to everyone
his attention and his inattention
the line of his nose
the fullness of his lips
the neutrality and the passion
the hello and the goodbye
weeeeeeee--the pure pleasure of the moment
the thrill
and the quiet
the ease of sitting beside him
I miss these small things and more
and then try to remember . . . love is vast
posted by Sat Purkh Kaur Khalsa @ 3:08 PM
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