to hold one's depth

One night, over beer, we spoke of 'good days' and 'bad days'. You spoke with soft edges, with gentleness like cupped hands, like a quiet fireplace, surrounding, holding my being. On non-bad days, I realise, I don't even think about death. The notion of wanting to die is foreign to me, absurd, peculiarly pitiable. On bad days it is just too hard, life is a burden that is too much to bear, I just want the ache to end.

That's alright, you say. On bad days you cannot summon the particles of strength in the atoms in the fibers of your limbs to get out of bed. Bad days pass like blanks, like gaps in the continuous etching of life, and you have come to accept them.

He is a saucer, a little white porcelain saucer of light soya sauce, and as tenderly precious as he is both as a person and to me, he will not be able to hold my depth the way you do, the way she does, the way /he/ would have been able to, if he had a way to wrap around his own darkness in acceptance and redemption.

(She will hold his depth, though. She will embrace his being, cup around it like a healing balm, and they will make each other better.)

A few days ago, though, I was privileged to catch a glimpse into the saucer's special depth. The soya sauce does have a darker gradient as it approaches its slightly concave middle. He reminded me of someone else, someone who peeled off the exterior, just for me, to uncover his solid-rock foundation, maturity. He taught me a great deal about what it means to be honoured and respected, by others, by myself; and I am forever grateful.