It’s the moment of turning back, when I’m leaving on a trip and I take one last look at my parents behind security at the airport, or maybe waving to them as the train pulls away. Or maybe sending off a friend. Moving away. The few seconds of goodbye. Or sometimes, it’s in moments sitting across a table from someone when you suddenly realize something has irrevocably changed.

When it occurred, you don’t know.

Perhaps a month’s worth of life has suddently siezed to be daily mundane and reveals itself as a journey away from where and who you were. Maybe you realize that fewer emails and a reduced number of phone calls and a bigger lag time between contact has revealed itself as different paths no longer easily gapped with two tin cans and a string. Maybe you realize you’re not interested in revealing any more detail beyond “it’s OK” when asked about your life, not out of flippancy, but because the shared context between friends is no longer there. All you have are “remember whens.”

Friends shift. You shift. It’s all there, but changed, and you’re not sure if it’s sunrise or sunset.

Salt, you know.

We are to be the salt of the earth, but somehow we have to do that without looking back, without becoming a pillar of salt no longer capable of moving forward, only drying up everything around and staying right where we are.

Interests no longer interest. The fight feels more about fighting the need to let go rather than the original intent. Like a moon, it all waxes and wanes.

For no particular reason, I saw a shift this evening.

Tears have salt.