Reflections on Impermanence

Vermeer's "The Milkmaid"

This was the picture on the front of a postcard I recently sent Scott.  I've actually had it in my possession for the past seven years, because I bought it in Amsterdam in the fall of 2003, after Scott and I had just viewed the original painting in person.  "So, I guess some things last," I wrote on the back, thinking of the painting, still vibrant after almost 400 years, and the postcard, none the worse for its seven years of be-bopping around.  He called me this morning, mock-indignant:  "'Some things last?' What's that supposed to mean?"  And suddenly, I felt as if I were two selves: the present self, awash in nostalgia and a vague sadness; and a former self, simply delighted to hear his voice.  Emotional vertigo, followed almost immediately by a flash of anxiety, a very specific anxiety I feel almost every time I talk to him.  It's particularly acute whenever I have something to say that I'm not sure he'll want to hear. "I've started writing my tell-all memoir," I told him, "although it's only a blog."  He laughed. "Well, I hope you've changed the names to protect the innocent," he said.  "Don't worry," I assured him, "Your name is Scott."  He didn't ask for the link, and I wasn't surprised: he's made it very clear that he wants to hear as little about what he calls my "dating life" as possible, short of requiring me to manufacture outright falsehoods in an attempt to spare his feelings.  Scott and I have always walked a shaky line between Too Much Information and Not Enough, and we frequently find ourselves veering off course.  Some things never change. Still, I'm glad he called, and I'm glad I 'fessed up.