“I am always with you. Why don’t you understand that?”
The man answered slowly, thinking out loud as he had so often
done with his friend. “The memory of you is always with me. But a
memory isn’t you.”
“Who is it then?”
“It’s an it, not a who.”
“Whos aren’t its? What are they then?”
"Whos are whos. Persons. Its are things.”
“Well I like to think I’m some thing. Some kind of a thing.”
“I like to think you’re a person. Even when you aren’t anymore.”
“Yet here I am.”
“Here you are.”
They fell silent.
They waited, together, in a place that didn’t (shouldn’t) exist, where their
presence together was as tangible as the strong friendship (love) between
them.
Both bodies and spirits seemed made whole out of the fog, by the fog,
and they rested as part of the fog.
The fog itself swirled and rippled around them, lightening and darkening,
and in general deepening and entwining, until there was nothing to be seen but the
glimmering light and the embracing cloud.
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