They say you can never step into the same river twice. You can’t look at the same ocean twice, either. Every moment is a million different oceans with different blues, different facets, and different waves, like violent lace crowning the shore.
I was floating in one of those liquid moments the other day, thinking about plans for leaving Guam and all the headache-inducing minutia that goes along with the process, when a sobering thought hit me: the thing I’ll miss the most isn’t necessarily the beach or that moment-by-moment ocean that I can see from my backyard.
I’ll miss the pictures, drawn with both cameras and words, that I wish I could step back into. But I’ll never really remember how beautiful and alive moments are–how floating in these Pacific waters feels like swimming in a diamond, or how the blue of the deep water is so blue that it almost hurts your eyes. Too perfect a color. I bet that’s a taste of what heaven will look like.
The sad part is that as soon as I step out of that ocean and walk away from that moment, I can’t remember how nearly perfect it was. I suppose Massachusetts will have to replace those moments with a few of its own.