Forgetting, death as usual, and ice cream, Christmas, childhood sensations. Yet, as getting older, to linger seems to be the most acute way of being present, to dwell into one’s own disappearance by staring at frozen time. Or feel somewhat permanent next to frozen yogurt, ice cream, gelato, eis, glass, whatever melts across borders.

All love stories should start—and end—at a bridge. Like getting back “home” for Christmas, walking some dog along the local lovers’ lane, only to find that the bridge over the frozen waters is gone! The wooden boards were rotten according to the municipality.

But hear this: He who is too impoverished for an offering chooses wood that will not rot; he seeks out a skillfull craftsman to set up an idol that will not move. Isaiah, 40,20.

Mystery means what you can see with closed eyes, and say with a closed mouth. What now, could be worshiped more than what passeth away, before our eyes, and faster than our bodies?

To linger is to watch oneself forget, oh how present, and pleasant, to almost have had that gelato somewhere within memories’ ever changing colors.