Marjan Kamali

I only lack you, which means that I lack everything, of course.

We don’t always match up to our own expectations of who we wanted to be when we were younger, that’s for sure.

We’re too old to suffer for no reason, he said. Lord knows that life is fragile enough.

Yes, she loved him. The truth of that was like a wave that washed over and submerged her in salty torrents, knotting her hair and stinging her nose, pulling the life out from under her. Of course she loved him. The earth was round, day turned into night, he was in front of her and she loved him.

Maybe old love just ran through the decades unfettered, unimpeded, even when denied.

All I could see was you standing in the shop, your hair in braids, your schoolbag on your shoulder. I only heard your voice. In your presence, I found a calm.

I loved you. I loved you then, I love you now, I will always love you.

You are my love.

She pressed her cheek against his heart and lay there, grateful for the time she’d had with him, however short or long it had been, grateful she had known him, grateful that once, when she was young, she had experienced a love so strong that it did not go away, that decades and distance and miles and children and lies and letters could never make it disappear.

Why doesn’t his heart let go? Why do some people stay lodged in our souls, stuck in our throats, imprinted in our minds?

the love will continue to live the young will continue their hope the fight for democracy won’t die his books the words the notes the letters the hope cannot ever end. It is a love from which we never recover.