Hello Beautiful

by Ann Napolitano

She would celebrate whoever her beloved happened to be; she would be curious about his distinctiveness and sink into a love that was unblinkingly honest.

“We’re part of the sky, and the rocks in your mother’s garden, and that old man who sleeps by the train station. We’re all interconnected, and when you see that, you see how beautiful life is.

“We are not contained between our hats and boots.”

She wanted to be true to herself with every word she uttered, every action she took, and every belief she held.

She wondered what could make people throw away items in such good condition.

The fact that he had failed meant he had to continue to walk forward with his life history—his mistakes—slung over his shoulders like a heavy backpack.

It occurred to him, for the first time, that just because you never thought about someone didn’t mean they weren’t inside you.

“I didn’t think I would ever find a man, other than my father, who truly understood me. Who would see the way I look at the world, what reading means to me, how I wonder about everything. Someone who would see the best version of me, and make me believe I could be that person.”

She wondered if dying was simply going to be an exercise in letting go of one thing after another.

She carried a book at all times—to read, yes, but also as a handy shield for when she wanted to deflect the attention of other people.

When your love for a person is so profound that it’s part of who you are, then the absence of the person becomes part of your DNA, your bones, and your skin.

“When an old person dies,” Kent said, “even if that person is wonderful, he or she is still somewhat ready, and so are the people who loved them. They’re like old trees, whose roots have loosened in the ground. They fall gently. But when someone like your aunt Sylvie dies—before her time—her roots get pulled out and the ground is ripped up. Everyone nearby is in danger of being knocked over.”