#parting

Louise Glück, from Meadowlands; "Departure"

snoopy getting to know his neighbours before they die later today

Snoopy is one of the central characters in the comic strip Peanuts by American cartoonist Charles M. Schulz. He also appears in all of the Peanuts films and television specials. Debuting in the strip on October 4, 1950, the original drawings of Snoopy were inspired by Spike, one of Schulz's childhood dogs.

C01 31:28 - When you love the immutable, it will bring tranquility. If you love anything that you can lose, anything in this world: [a] It won't be big enough to fill your heart, your heart is deeper than you know. [b] It's too fragile, one of the things that my wife & I know, "we've got three sons/daughters-in-laws/grandchildren, we've got a loving family & we know even if you're fortunate enough to live a long time—if you do live a long time, you will live to see everyone that matters to you in the ground." And you're the fortunate one bc you have a long life.. And if all the source of your love & contentment is your family, that's intolerable! [32:12] Augustine says only if you love GOD more than you love anything else, will your heart not always be broken; or you'll be hardening it in order to deal with how it tears you up if you love anything more than you love GOD—you've got to love GOD supremely!!! because HE's the only thing that can't be taken from you.. [32:30] Tim Keller: Uncovering Satisfaction || Oxford Christian Union 📦fulfillment

The Emptiness You Leave Behind

Nine o’clock on Saturday morning. Light slants through the half-open curtains in dusty beams, exactly as it has done for all these years. You are still lying beside me, your eyes closed beneath a forehead that has finally smoothed out in sleep. Your breathing is deep and steady, a rhythm I thought I knew by heart, yet now it feels strangely foreign. The sheets wrap around us with the scent of last night: the heavy damp of sweat, the stale warmth of sleep, and the faint bitter aftertaste of our final conversation. My fingers hover a few centimeters above your shoulder. I want to feel the warmth of your skin one last time, the soft hairs on your chest, but I don’t touch you. I know this is the last image I will keep of you: vulnerable and still mine.

After today, you will wake up somewhere else. There is someone else for whom you now hold your breath, someone you give more to than to the remains of us. It can happen, you said last night, coolly. As if love were a weather condition that simply overtakes you, like an unexpected rain shower for which you could not find shelter.

I have to be strong now. I repeat it like a mantra, a prayer to a god I don’t believe in. I know it will be a long time before the echo of your voice fades from the walls of this house. But deep in my bones I hope that one day I will be free, just as indifferent and light-footed as you already are. I wait for love to burn itself out, while my chest tightens with every breath, as if the fabric has become too small for my heart.

Two o’clock in the afternoon. The living room, once our safe haven, has turned into a soulless battlefield of cardboard boxes and open suitcases. Your things are stacked neatly by the door, almost offensively efficient. I walk past the pile and let my fingertips glide over the handle of your largest suitcase. The leather feels cold and stiff. Nausea rises in me, a sick knot in my stomach that crawls toward my throat, but I swallow it down. I force myself to smile when you ask if I want more coffee. You look at me, but you no longer see me; you are already looking straight through me toward your new life. I am learning it already, this being strong. My body stands tall, my voice sounds steady, but inside every cell is screaming for mercy.

I stay strong. Just a little longer. Until I no longer love you.

Six o’clock in the evening. The air outside is heavy and golden, a dramatic glow spilling over the rooftops as if the day itself is taking one final bow. You stand in the hallway with your coat on, the collar still half-folded. Your keys jingle softly in your hand, a metallic sound that cuts the silence in two. Well, goodbye, you say. Your voice sounds almost casual, as if this is only a temporary departure, a quick errand to the supermarket. I only nod. We stand there, trapped in the narrow hallway, too close for strangers and too far apart for lovers. You lean forward and plant a kiss on my cheek. It is a dry, almost clinical touch that leaves me colder than the draft slipping under the front door. Then you turn around.

I watch you from the doorway. I follow the line of your back, the strength in your shoulders as you lift the last suitcase into the trunk. The engine starts with a dull rumble and the taillights glow bright red, like two warning signals in the twilight. You drive away without looking back. I remain standing as the cold evening air creeps under my sweater and turns my skin to goosebumps. Why don’t I scream? Why do my eyes stay dry and burning? Maybe this farewell has been rehearsed so many times in my head that the real performance leaves me numb. But this time there is no coming back.

Ten o’clock. The darkness is now complete. The house feels too big, the walls seem to recede while the silence presses toward me. It still smells too much of you here. I am choking on the memory. I grab my jacket from the coat rack and step out into the street, leaving the zipper open against the suffocating feeling. The city breathes a mixture of wet pavement, frying oil, and the sharp scent of cheap tobacco. I walk without purpose, my hands pushed deep into my pockets. All around me life is pulsing: laughing groups of people, the thumping bass from cafés, the carefree joy of a Saturday night. I don’t want to be alone with my own thoughts. Not yet.

In a dark corner of a bar I order a double whisky. The bartender nods at me with a look that sits somewhere between pity and recognition. I drink too fast. The alcohol burns in my throat and spreads an aggressive warmth through my chest, but it doesn’t drive you out. On the contrary. The harder I try to erase your face, the sharper your body forces itself upon my memory. The curve of your back beneath my palms. The way you tilted your hips when I took you from behind, my fingers pressed firmly into your sides, as we moved together in that slow, insistent rhythm. I hear again how you whispered my name, a hoarse sound caught somewhere between pleasure and pain. Your scent, that intoxicating mix of soap and aroused skin, seems to creep back into my nose. I almost feel again how your skin grew damp and electric under my mouth, how your breath caught the moment I found the right spot and you lost yourself to me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and take another sip. Be strong, I command myself. Though the hope is small, I pray that this fierce longing will one day die out. That I will once again be able to look at someone without searching for your mouth, without feeling your hands in every touch. Without thinking about how you laughed when you came: half surprised, drawing deep breaths of air, as if surfacing for the first time.

I am waiting for the day when I no longer love you. Or for the day when I can fill this emptiness with someone else.

Outside, the drizzle has turned into a steady downpour. I walk back through the wet streets, my hair sticking to my forehead and my jacket hanging heavy on my shoulders. The cold water runs down the back of my neck and the drops feel like your fingers: cool, stroking, almost tender. I let it happen. I let the rain touch me in the places where you no longer do. For tonight I surrender. Tomorrow I will pull myself together. Tomorrow I will start building the wall again.

But tonight, in this indifferent city full of strangers, I allow myself to feel how broken I am. How painful and how terribly beautiful it was. How wet and warm and alive you felt in my arms. How deafening is the emptiness you leave behind.