In so many different and particular ways;
But who amongst us can predict
For which reasons, and along which fault lines,
Will the heart of each of us
Be broken? I cannot, for I am moved
By so many different and unexpected things: by our sky,
Which at each moment may change its mood at whim
With clouds in such a hurry to be somewhere else;
By our lingering haars, by our eccentric skyline,
All crags and spires and angular promises,
By the way we feel in Scotland, yes, simply that;
These are the things that break my heart
In a way for which I am never quite prepared –
The surprises of a love affair that lasts a lifetime.
But what breaks the heart the most, I think,
Is the knowledge that what we have
We all must lose; I don’t much care for denial,
But if pressed to say goodbye, that final word
On which even the strongest can stumble,
I am not above pretending
That the party continues elsewhere,
With a guest list that’s mostly the same,
And every bit as satisfactory;
That what we think are ends are really adjournments,
An entr’acte, an interval, not real goodbyes;
And perhaps they are, dear friends, perhaps they are.
The World According to Bertie Page 36
