Where the time goes...

Sweetheart, I was making a note to myself to find the email that my friend sent me quite a while ago about a dream she had where you and I were together. I found it and am going to post it in a minute. But I also wanted to post what I wrote as I was making the note to myself, my love. Here it is:

...And the thought that remembering suddenly an anecdote, an outing, a look, something Summer said - anything like that is the most incredible kind of blessing, and a reminder to me, that even if I'll never truly know happiness again, there are these blessings of potent memory so powerful they have a palpable sensory quality to them - I can almost touch our life. And faith that someday I will crawl through that pinhole of consciousness, slipping free, emerging through revolving glass doors – don’t push or touch them, let them turn as they will – emerging into bright daylight, the air familiar, Summer approaching behind the wheel of her banged-up blue Prius (“But your Dad sold that after you…” I begin to say, not yet understanding) to collect me, running to her before she’s even fully pulled to the curb (“Are we at SFO?” I wonder, my mind literally blowing), pulling her to me, my sweetheart in her little blue anchor t-shirt and black yoga pants, her gorgeous red tresses atop her head, knotted through a pencil (“I’m famous for this…”, she said the first time I saw her doing it), letting me take her in my arms, hoisting her off her feet (“I forgot how light you are”, I blurt out, stupidly, “but not how your hands feel on my neck. I…”) and begin to weep. “Shh,” she says, “it’s okay, now. I’ve so much to tell you! Remember that song I used to sing, 'where does the time go'? Well…”  And I’m with her, I’m there with her, all restored, all resumed, again and forever. That is time. Time. All unknowable...