These past months, you’ve disappeared behind your workload. You’re drawing up Buzzfeed-styled listicles for assignments, writing “soft news” stories for homework, and remaining dissatisfied with the reporting you’ve done. This isn’t why you are here, you keep telling yourself. And when your friend tells your that her friend asked about Makola, you’re stunned. Do your words matter enough to even be remembered?

This comes down to how you are remembered, doesn’t it.

When you die, it doesn’t end. Your memory lives on. And you are talked about in quiet words, over the phone, in person, and on airplanes. You’re remembered by the strangers. You’re discussed by those whom you were most familiar with. They don’t want to let go. And they never will. You’ll always be with them.

You’re just going to have to wait for the day when they catch up with you. You’ve gone on ahead and here in the mortal world, time ticks on. So you wait with patience and a calmness that only death can acquaint us with.

And the rest of us who remain are all trying to being those who are worthy of your acquaintance. We try to be loving, gentle, true. We try to embody sincerity. We don’t want to make this about us. This was never about us. This is larger than us. Larger than anything I’ve written about yet.

And when we are all gathered, we’ll recognize each other. So much will have altered.. so much will have regained its original, unfiltered, unmodified form. But we’ll know. That day, we’ll see each other as we really are… even when we did not try knowing ourselves, each other, or the One who made us all.


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