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2007-01-20 - 9:38 a.m.

On the way home from work yesterday, driving up Calvert, weaving past all the double-parkers, keeping an eye out for wobbly pedestrians, I was thinking about yearning. There's no metaphor there, really, but earlier in the day, my mom called and left a voicemail and I called her back at her job. We talked for a half hour and it was nice. She seemed maybe just a touch down, for a reason I couldn't get at, and I knew from the way she was responding to me that I was touch down, too. I'm generally that way at work, but she was asking me how things were, and how's the teaching job search. And she bucked me up, like she always does, and I felt better. And as I was driving home, through the city, I was thinking that what are we if not those who yearn? I've read enough stories and listened to enough people talk that I know that yearning is the basis of stories and that yearning is how we make sense of things, the mechanism by which our days and nights fit into a grander thing, a narrative, a story. Yearning is why the shout in the dark matters, or could matter, or should matter. And that, for some reason, makes me feel better, too.

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