Ten years ago when she was eighteen and was not called Arrow, she borrowed her father’s car and drove to the countryside to visit friends. It was a bright, clear day, and the car felt alive to her, as though the way she and the car moved together was sort of a destiny, and everything was happening exactly as it ought to. As she rounded a corner one of her favourite songs came on the radio, and sunlight filtered through the trees the way it does through lace curtains, reminding her of her grandmother, and tears began to slide down her cheeks. Not for her grandmother, who then was then still very much among the living, but because she felt an enveloping happiness to be alive, a joy made strong by the certainty that someday it would all come to an end. It overwhelmed her, made her pull the car to the side of the road. Afterwards, she felt a little foolish, and never spoke to anyone about it.
Now, however, she knows she wasn’t being foolish. She knows that for no particular reason, she stumbled into the core of what it is to be human. It’s a rare gift to understand that your life is wondrous and that it won’t last forever.

Steven Galloway

The Cellist of Sarajevo

(via passionately—curious)

Notes

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