Foreword

On the days when the weather is right, I swear I can feel the tickle of young love: the kind that’s radiant, inviting, and easy to fall into. It’s simple and charming and as light as goosefeathers.

On some odd days, I can vaguely remember the approach to the precipice of old love, woolen, worn & monumental. We knew we were on the verge of crossing, but never sure how to look over to the other side. Young love is easy, I realize, but old love is not.

Old love is familiar yet ill-fitting, like bumping shoulders with strangers in elevators. You never notice it arriving, and when it has, it’s morphed. The taste changes in your mouth; the notes go all blue and glassy like black piano keys.

I tried to hold her loneliness once, balancing it between both palms and guessing at its secrets. Like most notebooks go, it was silent and weighty and important. We bound it back up quickly, leaving crinkles in the seams. Sometimes I still wonder if I could have borne its weight.

Looking back, it was my embarrassment that caught me off guard. Nobody told me about it, a bottled-up outside-in feeling, a silly and shameful confusion. I felt childlike, at a loss of answers, wanting to hide. This I’ve learnt, too: I must run quickly to the father, before my armor thickens.

Yahweh is my father I heard someone once cry, and I will do the same. He has gifted us a hundred sadnesses for our good, and we will soon (soon) sing songs in firelight and know again the barely-floating sensations of joy. He is the one who has ordained for us the seasons. I will yield to his grip and submit to his kiln. Stay low to the ground I heard once, and felt it True.

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