Mark

Sometimes, I am overcome, and like, no matter how long it's been, it comes welling up from my stomach, through my chest, into my throat, causing my mouth to drop open, as if in a gasp for breath, and I stare into the night, and say "I love you," out loud, like it's some sort of relief valve, or something.

Then, I can swallow it back for a minute, or another day, another week, a month, who knows.

I can easily imagine being some doddering old man in my old, old, age, out on some walk to keep from dropping over, sitting down on a park bench to take a rest, and have it assail me just the same damn way as today.

And I'll say, "I love you," out loud, then, too, and some passerby will think I'm insane or senile.

The irony will be that will likely be one of my forseeably more lucid moments.

I love you. I hope you're doing well. That things are not scary. That sometimes the spring sunshine feels as perfect to you as it sometimes does to me.

I love you, baby. I love you.

***

Have you ever read Nicole Krauss' The History of Love?