It is dawn. The silence of a hotel room is very different from the silence at home.
Here there are no familiar sounds, no past.
Today is February 13.
Four years ago on this day I said goodbye to you in the physical world.
It is still strange to say it, because that connection never truly belonged to the “physical world.”
It was older. A language humans do not learn — only recognize.
It was the hardest decision of my life.
Because more than anything I wanted you to stay.
I longed for that ordinary morning we once took for granted: we wake up together, you look at me with that unconditional, ancient trust, and in that gaze I always found myself — I knew exactly who I was: the home of love.
We became one within a feeling.
You had once been very ill.
So much so that the doctors had given up on you.
Yet I didn’t leave you at the clinic. Every morning I drove you there and sat beside you. For ten days my workplace became that little room while the fluids and medicines flowed through the tiny cannula.
I didn’t take you back for the last infusion. I knew what they wanted to say. They wanted to talk to me about euthanasia.
No. Not yet. We still have time.
So I began not to fight for life.
I became it and surrounded you with it.
Every evening I lay beside you on the floor on a blanket.
I simply gave from what is my inheritance. I finally began to live myself.
And you stayed.
Day by day the symptoms disappeared, one after another.
Like a miracle I never wished to prove.
It was enough that you healed.
You even became younger in spirit. It became a gift — another year and a half.
Then that day arrived.
February 13, 2022.
I sat beside you with the diagnosis in my hands. Your kidneys had failed. You cried in pain.
I was not strong. I did not want to be “spiritual.” I was not searching for a lesson.
Only one thing mattered: instead of the body’s suffering, to let you fly free.
13.5 years of earthly time…
Letting go is not a single movement.
Letting go is those moments when love does not cling desperately.
It does not think of itself, but feels the other — and takes the step that makes it easier for them.
I released the touch of your body, not you.
Our true time was not only the years we spent together, but the state we learned beside each other: how to exist without fear, simply onward. Together in another way.
Its name is love.
This is why I woke at dawn today.
Not because of absence.
But because some connections have no anniversary in a calendar — only the memory of the heart keeps them.
I let you go four years ago.
And for four years I have been learning that love is not seeing or possessing one another.
Every year I place a beautiful flower onto the waves of the ocean, and you arrive across the sea of the sky, showing yourself where heaven and earth meet.
Now and forever we are together, as long as the world endures.
