To Miss a Person
I’m beginning to understand a bit more about the beauty of the silence around me. In the silence you cannot expect too much from a person. When you are alone in a room, secluded in a wood, or engulfed by nature, with no electronic gizmos, you can only expect the silence to greet you. Whereas, in the chaos of technology you are always expecting responses, conversations, and proof of care.
Here, in the silence, all those things are foreign, for all you have is the silence. From this silence memories are birthed. They are opened like the pages of a photo album, or are spun like old fashioned movie reels, in your mind. They are imprints in your sub-conscience of the things that were and of the things you so dearly love.
It is in these moments that you truly miss a person. To miss them in the chaos of technology is to miss their lack of response first and then the person themselves, but here you miss the whole of a person all at once. You race a stick down the stream and wish they were there to compete against you; you cook a meal and wish they were there adding ingredients; you read a book and wish they were there to hear you talk about how wonderful or dull it was; you watch the evening slip into night and search for their hand wishing it were nearby.
It is here that you miss the essence of a person not a highly anticipated response. Here you expect nothing of a person except that they go on existing in your mind that you might remember them as long as possible. Here you understand the lack of presence most fully and long to be with a person more than ever.