The God of Endings

by Jacqueline Holland

the taking of anything sets into motion its eventual loss; nothing that is can resist becoming what was; to begin presumes the acceptance of an end.

I’ve been obsessed with this idea that you speak of—getting what one deserves, or not—it had made me bitter. But that’s because it just doesn’t make any sense to begin with. What you deserve and what you get: there’s no way to measure them. You get the world and the world gets you, who’s swindling whom?”

we’re just the warped remains of imperfectly loved children. None of us gets the perfect love we ought, but maybe that’s what life is for, to give us time to collect it in bits and pieces, a little here, a little there. Maybe we’re supposed to put it together ourselves slowly.”

How presumptuous is the gift of life? What arrogance is implicit in the act of love that calls another into existence? This world, my love, I give it to you. All of it. You’re welcome, and I’m sorry.