What happens to that space you occupied when you are gone? That space defined by all the things you kept close, by all the people who stayed close to you, what becomes of it? Loved ones may try to fill it, preserve its form and shape the way you left it. They will visit it often–at first–to prevent it from appearing unoccupied, vacant. Abandoned. But they all have their own spaces to occupy. When you are gone they will each still have their own assortment of people and things which they hold close–except for one. And that break in the line of love that contains them will need soon to be closed.
Tell me where you go, so I can stretch these ragged ends of who I was with you, to rejoin you, and become me again, and so we won’t have this empty space in place of you.