Photo by Kara Harms
We are each of us our own universe, I remember him remarking. He was pointing toward the starlit sky as we lay flat on our backs in the meadow behind our house. It was said with such an innocent wisdom.
He didn’t know that would be his last summer.
Or maybe he did, on some level. Maybe everyone did, but me.
Wasn't that what the crickets were singing that night?
I didn’t listen. I didn't hear.
And now I live where there are no crickets. Who knew such a place existed? It’s not something you face yourself with—the possibility of no crickets—until you're standing in the middle of a darkness that won’t quit, wondering what’s missing. Wondering how darkness could have a hole right in the center of it. Darker than dark.
But then, here I am again, focusing on what’s missing. Hiding behind his memory. Staring blindly into the hole when there is a whole universe wrapped around it.
Have I learned nothing?