[I getta kick outta numbers; the ones at the time of day, above, being the same as those recorded at the birth of that first born son, the subject of the previous entry.]
I have woken up the boychildren, and surprised them with a kinda sorta sticking to my word thing, and asked if they'd like to go mini-golfing - having earlier in the week, dealing with the disappointment of me having rescheduled the camping trip for the second time, for yet another weekend in the future, I promised we we do some things during the week (this among them) to make the time go quicker in getting to the next promised weekend.
***
We (Another and I) had a several hours long conversation again last evening.
At its close, the topic settled on "what are we doing, here," given various and sundry and very real limitations. There seemed to be some conclusion, though I don't think either of us would call it that at the moment, that what we are really doing is just failing to say goodbye.
***
For now, though, something prettier.
If You Forget Me
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
Pablo Neruda