She sometimes talks about volcanology with a hint of lament in her voice. What her plans were. What might have otherwise been. I sometimes think about otherwise, too. With a hint of lament. What might have been but isn’t. Plans gone by.
But she didn’t do that. And I didn’t do those.
Instead, we met outside a restaurant that is no longer there, she walking with a confident swagger that spoke of the volcanologist in her. With a smile on her face and a glint in her eyes.
And it makes me glad for the this. For the what did. For the what is. With no hint of regret.
