I wrote three lines to the boy today, mostly in his language. His tongue has several ways of saying goodbye. I knew I was choosing one that seemed final. I sent him kisses, and told him, simply, goodbye, and that I would always love him.
He responded, again in his own language, saying, "This has the sound of a farewell. No, please. Until later, my love. That sounds much better."
Lent is a season of reflection, of stripping away and looking things in the face. So I have not responded to him. I will try to refrain from writing to him, as I invariably want to, and do, several times a day. It is time to look this in the face.
On this day in a dying winter, life stirs, waiting for April, the cruellest month, waiting for warmth, waiting for something.