vitreous fragility

when amy talked about the ability of loss to create space, she mentioned nicole krauss's the history of love, a book which has saved my life multiple times. tonight, for better or for worse, i decided to read it again. and i came to a part called the age of glass in which people imagine that parts of them are made of glass. and though the world moved on, sometimes there are some that find that they, too, are made of glass. 

one man, caught between the battle of this frailty and the desire to hold a woman he loves, walks delicately this tightrope string between chasms: "he ran his fingers down her spine over her thin blouse, and for a moment he forgot the danger he was in, grateful for the world which purposefully puts divisions in place so that we can overcome them, feeling the joys of getting closer, even if deep down we can never forget the sadness of our insurmountable differences."

i think we are strong. and we can find beauty and share it with each other to overcome things that seem ugly and unfair and unholy. we are resilient. we are brave. we are fearless. but often, i think, there are parts of us that are made of glass. and tenderly reaching to another being requires so much risk of hurt and sadness. but those moments of touch come so close to being holy. 

thelma and i were talking tonight about how i think people are both lonely and irreplaceable, and how she always asks people how their parents met, and how it makes her both happy and sad. mine met in a high school drama production. my mom played my dad's pregnant wife. 

and i am still not quite sure how any of these things go together or why i feel such desperation to communicate my fragility right now, but this i know: loneliness is a crime. because though we are made of glass, or i think more because we are made of glass, we owe each other a deep-rooted sense of compassion. and understanding. so that when one of us pulls away too quickly. or when someone disappears from a room suddenly. or when there is someone sitting on a bench with splintering limbs. we can know, and love, anyway.