April 22

When something is taken from you, you first count what is missing. That is not a lack of composure but accuracy: you had it, and now you don't. Whoever assures you at that moment that the most important thing is still yours is usually consoling themselves more than you.

Later, though, you may notice something odd. What survived the loss is seldom what you had secured with particular care. It is rather what never quite belonged to you: a song you know by heart, your way of looking, the way an afternoon slowly turns into evening. No one could take it away, because you never owned it yourself.

This discovery cuts both ways. It brings relief, and it shames you a little. You have spent a great deal of attention on things that can be carried off, and comparatively little on what stays anyway, precisely because it asks for no protection.

It does not follow that possessions don't matter. You can't pay rent with what no one can take from you. But the next time you lock something up, you will know roughly what the lock does not need to protect.