The Last Portraits

I think maybe nothing ever ends. Time goes on. The sun sets and rises, and the finches continue gabbing in the wild rose.

There are moments that seem like an end. The last moments. The nothing-will-be-the-same moments. But really these are not endings. Something always comes next. The past is never entirely in the past, but sits like a smooth stone in the pocket. Its weight, its cool texture against our fingers is always present, always real and now. And the future … in some form or another it will always be there. Maybe like the past, the future is never entirely in the future, but with us in the present also. The hope that picks us out of bed. A hand against our back that pushes us forward. A voice that reminds us “left foot, right foot, left foot …”

I think nothing ever ends. The last moments are always, at the same time, the first moments. Not a new beginning, but simply another first-something, an new never-before.

There should be an element of excitement in this. It’s there, I think. It must be there. The excitement. Dressed in sadness and a new heaviness.

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