Thirst for Salt

by Madelaine Lucas

Our afternoons were stolen time, precious to me, and I maintained my old superstition that if I spoke about what I loved, it would somehow be taken from me. I wanted to keep it close inside, this feeling, to be turned over and examined only in private, at least until—until what?

The only way I can understand this now is that what I was feeling, standing in his kitchen all those years ago, was a presentiment of loss.

And maybe what I wanted—my oldest wish—was for no time to pass while the ones I loved were gone.

What continues to surprise me, and what I still don’t understand, is not the reasons that love ends but the way that it endures.