Last night, voices from my past echoed through a church. Full of field and stars, they sang, you carried all of time.
Earlier in the day, I had been asked what I knew about entanglement.
"Quantum entanglement," I said, dredging the term from memory, holding up two fists. "It has to do with two particles that are separate, but linked."
"Yes," the man said. "They can be lightyears away, but they maintain that link. It opens up all sorts of possibilities."
Twelve hours later, I was slouched beside a favorite face from my past as he rolled Norwegian shag and traced my tattoos, no longer in church but in an apartment filled with singers, dancing now – someone telling us that her curls were new, unasked for. Her ancestors kinking her straight hair, she said.
As pulsing beats flooded open doors and red light bathed the night, I assured my dear friend that he hadn't changed. I tapped his chest and said, same soul. We couldn't stop telling each other how we had each changed the other's life. We couldn't stop smiling, knowing that tonight was another junction: a coming together and pulling apart. Cyclical cohesion lasting 14 years.
I know that someday soon I’ll see you, he had sung with the choir, but now you’re out of sight.
Having whittled the elapsed years down to nothing, I invited him into the future. Then we said goodbye, and began counting again.
5 days ago
