hye (n.) a moment of awareness that a certain greeting—whether spoken or metaphorical—contains within it a farewell. It can describe the explicit “hi” exchanged with someone it is likely you are seeing for the last time, or the metaphorical salutation offered to a place, experience, or moment that is slipping away.
(a portmanteau of English “hi” and “bye.”)

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Dear Friend,

This is the letter one regrets not having written in time. This is the letter one longs to write when addresses are no longer valid. This is the letter that always lingers somewhere between the thoughts. Until it takes flight with its owner across the ocean. Until it’s trampled by the crowd of more urgent thoughts. Until it drifts away with a hemorrhage, until it’s devoured by cancer, until it shatters on the asphalt, until it freezes in permafrost.

There comes a day—a day when one departs, takes flight, sets sail—or, quite simply, leaves. That day, I saw my reflection in your eye for the last time. And in the mirror of your eye, I saw, for the last time, my own smile. A smile I was never aware of. A smile not for mirrors or cameras. A smile for you. Born of incomprehensible twists of circumstances, of platonic alchemy, of harmonies as inexplicable as Music itself.

I once thought that romantic love is romantic precisely because it defies explanation. But for us, dear Friend, there was no explanation either. Why you? Why me? Why us? Why then? Why there?

We are bound by the poetry of fleeting moments. By that conversation that echoes in our mind. The afterimage of that view and that landscape. That, literal or metaphorical, storm. That cascade of wild events we named “an adventure”. Imprinted in memory by shared communion, a mutual conviction that with anyone else—or alone—these moments would never have been worthy of such exaltation—or of a poem!

We haven’t spoken much recently. Or perhaps we spoke only yesterday? I once met you after years of silence. Our arms entwined on each other’s backs with the old firmness and strength. Our Friendship, like our embrace, disregards calendars.

Dear Friend! When I think of you, I find myself playing with the very conjugation of “being.” You were, are, will be. Was I, am I, will I be? I search for a firmness within that final question mark. Perhaps Firmness already lives in the ‘F’ of Friendship.

Dear Friend! Wherever I am, you are too. Even if we cease to exist.

Finitudes

The receptionist who always handed me the mail without a smile;
The cousin’s grandfather, with archipelagos of white spots on his palms;
The neighbor who climbed trees better than I ever could;
The cleaning lady on the tenth floor, always smiling, always wordless;
For years, years, years—
the same ones.

The crossroads that, day after day, shortened my life with its red light;
The train station that, week after week, shortened my life with 4AM’s fast food;
The workers’ hotel that, month after month, sheltered the same yet different, stranger roommate;
The auto repair shop that, year after year, remained the same yet bore a different stamp.

There was not the slightest inkling that these things would end,
But when they vanished—there was no surprise at all.

The daily kiss on the forehead, that, like a droplet, eroded the rock;
The touch of feet beneath the sheets, that choked the throat with visions of an end;
The dog aging at a pace unbefitting human sensibility;
The grandfather who, day by day, coughed more and lived less.

Every moment carried the shadow of an ending,
But when they disappeared—I was utterly unprepared.