12.

For all I know this is where it ends, in the beginning. And yet, for all I know, everything could start all over again–my father, my mother, the girl with the perfumed wrist, Frau Noch Einmal, her little boy, my little boy, myself as a little boy, the walk in the evening snow, the genie in the bottle, the Rosetta stone within each one of us that nothing, not even love or friendship, can unburden, the life we think of each day, and the life not lived, and the life half lived, and the life we wish we’d learn to live while we still have the time, and the life we want to rewrite if only we could, and the life we know remains unwritten and may never be written at all, and the life we hope others may live far better than we have, all of it, for all I know, braided on one thread into which is spun something as simple as the desire to be one with the world, to find something instead of nothing, and having found something, never let it go, be it even a stalk of lavender.

Excerpt from “Lavender” (essay in Alibis) by André Aciman

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About Amber Donofrio

A writer, contemporary art enthusiast, avid reader, baker, nature appreciator, and art critic.
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