In the last year, the earth traveled 150 km, four million babies took their first breath, seven bee life cycles completed, and one young woman has become so close to a young man that she has lost sight of the line separating herself from him.
Her joys are not joys unless he shares them, her tears not real unless he feels them, her hand cold unless inside of his.
So close have they become that when she realizes that he, like her, will not be here forever, life and death become so real to her that she can’t help but weep awkwardly outside coffee shops, wondering if it were true in this moment if she would go home, and if she did, if she would be able to open the door, knowing that his breath would not be in her ear, nor his hand on her back.
She would because as fragile and delicate and precious and young their love is, it has relentlessly pointed her back to its source. A love so great it cannot possibly fit in this world except in the hearts of those that know it.
A love that will one day swallow up every sorrow. Even one so big as the one she would bear if he is taken.
And so for now she celebrates this year, in all its ups and downs and two becoming ones, and hopes for one more day to lose sight of that line, to get lost in the two of them in Him.