What makes a friend? People keep asking me, of late, what they do for me. People I love want to know what it is they do that makes me love them. But they also admit that it's a question they could never answer themselves. I could only ever answer it with platitudes, unfortunately... I don't know if there is a true answer that can be expressed in words. My dear Katrina says that platitudes are permissable... I've always tried to avoid them, felt they were emptier than saying nothing. But what I'm learning is that the weight of words doesn't depend on how often they've been said before, but rather upon the pure truth of their intention. I can say "I love you" as many times as I have breaths, and so I have, and so long as I mean it, it still means as much. Not something I've ever really thought about before, though it may seem self-evident now.
I stood on the top floor of the Children's Museum last night, looking out at the buildings and the lights, the whole city empty and silent. I stood on a rock above the water and looked at the sky. I stood in front of candles and a saint whose face ran in the glare of the lights and looked like an ocean. But I've done it before--what's different now? That I only have to point, and he sees. Not explain, not reconstruct, not demonstrate. I only have to point. I point... and he sees what I see. And on the edge of both of our sights... the silhouette of the other. No sight is perfect without it anymore.
So I keep him close, and always will. I see so much more with four eyes.
posted by Rivaine # 7:01 PM 
