My Sarah spent a cold Friday in a hospital in England having a handful of mL's of air sucked out of her chest with a needle. For whatever reason (I suspect juggling balls, but this is mostly because I'm suspicious of her husband's abilities) one of her lungs had pulled away from the spot where it was attached and formed a little pocket of blank space. As this space can lead to a collapsed lung they had to make it go away, and they went about removing it in, evidently, the usual way.
I've been worried about the whole thing, of course. When you're lucky enough to have people like Sarah in your life, you occasionally can't help but entertain a niggling sort of worry that they'll be taken away from you. But mostly I've been thinking about that extra space in her chest.
Because that's all we are, right? A concatenation of atoms? A bunch of empty spaces held together by string and spit and a whole lot of faith? And what I think is that my empty spaces are attracted to your empty spaces, and that they're looking to fill each other up.
So it's probably a good thing that Jesse was there to hold on to her while the doctors removed all of that blankness from her insides. From this side of the pond we're sending her love and a million million kisses. It's what holds together all of those empty spaces that really counts.
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