But I no longer needed him to explain my past before I could enjoy my future.
I had loved him.
I had lost him.
I had mourned him.
And finally, I had met him again—not as the young man I had waited for, but as the man he had become.
I could forgive him without returning to him. I could remember our love without sacrificing another day to it.
At seventy-six, I finally understood something I wished I had known much earlier.
Sometimes, the person you spend your life waiting for is not the person who will help you finish it.
And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is stop waiting, take your own hand, and walk toward the life that is still yours.
