Before being fully grown, still half-strange to one’s self, there is the magical acceptance by another, the endless talk of nothings through days that break the heart, that count for something in the passing of thirty years. Scattered conversations, time upon time. No, it’s more, but nothing more than what it was.
If you’re lucky, it — or they — can come round again, this magic. This magic, it’s old, because we were so very, very, young.