window

When I was a little boy I remember passing by other cars on the highway as my father drove us to Sunday school, the beach, or to visit grandparents.  I would look at the passengers as we pulled beside them.  It was a way to pass the time before the existence of handheld video games or mobile phones.  Once, as my eyes scanned the occupants of a car, I saw a little girl looking back at me, perhaps doing the same thing.  As we gazed at each other I suddenly felt an inexpressible bond form between us.  I sat up to see her better, and she did the same.  The cars moved away and then she was gone.

I never knew if she felt the bond I felt.  I liked to imagine she did.  There was no promise there.  There was no formal commitment or goal.  There was only a moment of contact.  That single moment in time felt like it meant everything.  There was an immanence there, an appearance of something on the plane of our gaze.

I've had the feeling since, not in passing cars, but a gaze shared beneath the blue sky and waving green grass.  I know what that feeling is now and can name it as love.  Did you know you don't get to choose the occupants of the cars you pass?