I mourn the end of things preemptively, reflexively; I know loss early and expectantly. Maybe I’m too familiar with the motions of losing (people, homes, possessions, reputations, continents, pasts), can hardly even hypothesize a reality other than one of continual loss. All I’ve known is this open-handed life, palms upturned in the broken dual-gesture of begging and release. Unable to hold anything for long, the sieve of my spirit accidentally letting even the important things through.
My brothers are the same way, I think. When we meet a kindred person or place or community, the inevitability of its eventual loss is built right into that moment of introduction: meetings rimmed by partings, newness already shot through with the dark singing stains of coming loss.
Every beginning also contains its certain end. Bud, bloom, decay. I want to believe in something different, but I don’t know how.