I’ve long pondered the need for closure. What impels us to reach into the past and root about for clues? The yearning for closure compelled me to write a novel — that, however, was fiction...
Would it be for the best in real life if we left Pandora's box unopened and the genie, prevented from perpetrating mischief, was consigned to languish yet another eon in its bottle? What real comfort could there be in resurrecting an ancient argument or finally asking the question to which we’ve long yearned for an answer? Maybe none.
But to reach out to an old friend and say you think of them often and remember them perhaps more kindly than they might deserve... in that gesture, I think, there is, if not closure, grace and a modicum of solace.
After Long Silence
Speech after long silence; it is right, All other lovers being estranged or dead, Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade, The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night, That we descant and yet again descant Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song: Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young We loved each other and were ignorant.
—W.B. Yeats
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