Thursday, June 13, 2013


Leaving is to die a bit.

Edmond Haracourt

An unidentified, sometimes imperceptible, 
sometimes heart-piercing, feeling of void 
fills the moment we say
A Moment Before Goodbye - Copyright © Miguel Darco

The hours and minutes before leaving are spent wishing we had parted already. Yes. An intense discomfort of the heart makes us wish we wouldn't have to go through it; it makes us wish we could be yellow enough not to have to face all that, and it makes us wish we could run off and hide someplace. 
We cannot. 

It hurts. 

The hours before are lived like a ritual, as if we were headed for the gallows, as if we knew that what we have now will never be again. It might not be the last time we see the person or the place we are leaving, but they will not be the same. Neither will we. 
A missing tree will make all the difference. A whiter hair will change everything because they are expressions of deeper events in the geology of our soul and of the place's soul.

I was weeping because Richard Parker left me so unceremoniously. 
It broke my heart. [...]
After all we had been through, it didn't even look back.[...]
I suppose in the end, the whole of life becomes an act of letting go. 

But what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye.
I know Richard Parker's a tiger, but I wish I had said, "It's over. We survived. Thank you for saving my life. I love you, Richard Parker. You'll always be with me. May God be with you."

Life of Pi  



  1. Shakespeare nailed it too with his "Parting is such sweet sorrow."

    Take care

  2. Nope, you've lost me there, Jay. Just been checking the obits and still scratching my head :)

  3. As always...beautifully stated.


  4. Yes, nothing to add to Jasmynne's comment or your elegy except "too true."

    Hope you're not going through this now . . .

  5. He most definitely did, Kitty!

    You've lost me here. What are you lost about?

    Thanks, it's always a pleasure to have you over!

    I'm not really going through this.
    But my posts are usually an elaboration of old inner life and feelings that are still throbbing inside, like the hot coals of an extinguished bonfire.