Pebbles in a Pond

With stony certainty, we are sure of some people. We have the pulse of their being what they are. We know them as if their blood flows in our veins.
Sometimes, not so much, about some others.

They had not been sand between the fingers. Not words written on water. Not a sting, not a fall. But they are, now.
They had been sunstone, summer rain. Detours that changed our destinations, enriched our journeys. They still are.

Now, you look at the vastness of the empty space and the darkness of the deep gorge left behind by them; you hold their share of sweet memories they didn't want a part of; you try to make sense of the nothingness in everything.

Dear friend, you held it well, precious, in your palm. And that is why I am sure of you.