Minor Threads

          A lot of people overlook the little moments, the minor threads that comprise the overarching tapestry of two people’s mosaic. Hidden within those minute moments is the amalgamation of the heart’s journey. Eroded by Time’s capacity to distance and blur, the subtle smile or clasping hand; the puckish kiss or fleeting gaze—or the simple words that outline the unforeseen path. Whatever it may be, it is the coalescing of these fragments that exist in the everyday—it is these moments that we must preserve.
          It was the witching hour—before dawn reared its rosy head—as we flew back East. Body drowsy, mind inflamed, I doubt the details could ever escape. I wonder if we knew it was our numbers that collided within the great cosmic lottery. Raw with the feel of it all, two lonesome specs in the primordial orbit of life, our routes irrevocably altered.
          On days like this the details surge within, threatening to commandeer the present. On the worst of days, they are the embers within the darkness staving off the void. Perhaps we are the only two that can ever fully immerse ourselves in them—like some secret Elysium within our minds.
          Don’t ever disregard the persistence of memory, for it endures above all else. Both the foundation and fuel, a shared past is soil ripe with promise. The tribulations of the tempest days make its fruition all the sweeter, as this harvest is wrought from endless compromise. Re-forged in the image of perseverance, this harvest weathers the slow-burn of distance, the suffocating miasma of silence, the insidious trickle of uncertainty. It survives like the towering Redwood sentinels of old, through sheer force of will, roots bunkered deep, weathering the fray as it’s meant to do.
          These collections of little moments amount to more than the sum of its parts: a sprawling monument in the face of Life’s thousand little wars. It is this that we have created together; that with each subsequent day we continually create. Amidst the sea of decay and disdain, this beacon shines ever brighter, bringing forth hope of the fabled infinite sunrise. I solemnly swear with whatever power these words may hold that I shall bring it to you—the horizon everlasting.
          These words are only that, words. Yet they are the conduit for reclaiming the minor threads of our past, present, future. I take this moment to leave you with the image at the epicenter: a broken watch, frozen at 7:10, in the soft morning light of our first true moment.
          I love you.