Reflections on love, presence, and the mystery of human bonds
Oton J. Dilan let his eyes wander around the room, breathing in the scent of old leather and memories still hanging in the air.
While he mused about “natural gradations,” he realized he wasn’t talking about hierarchy, but about emotional closeness — something that seems to be born along with the bond itself.
When it came to parents, he would say, nature seems to put an invisible seal, a kind of emotional password that — even if forgotten by time or distance — can be unlocked by a reunion, a word, a hug, or even a heated argument.
But with siblings, uncles, cousins, friends… the gradations are subtler, a little less automatic. Oton found it curious how, in these relationships, love needs more “watering.”
Real watering: living together, shared stories, laughter and disagreements, childhood memories, unexpected confidences, silence shared on the same couch.
There, without constancy and care, the feeling fades easily, becoming almost a memory of a spring that never came back.
Sometimes, Oton would find himself remembering unexpected encounters —
like that late-night phone call, years after a friendship seemed dead, but that, in an instant, reignited laughter and confessions as if time had never passed.
Or the brief message from a distant cousin, sending an old photo: “Do you remember this day?”
In those moments, he realized: the thread was still there, but the weave needed a new stitch to start pulsing again. Without that, love doesn’t unravel, but it stays there — stuck, unmoving, not breathing.
It exists, silently, waiting for the right gesture to come alive again.
When it’s a robust connection, like the bond between parents and children, time and absence are just layers that cover but don’t erase.
The fire of that love — almost unconditional — might seem dormant for years, but a gesture, some news, a memory, and it flares up once again.
For Oton, love only pulses where presence exists, no matter how small: a silly audio message in the middle of the day, an out-of-the-blue “thought of you,” a coffee shared even at a distance.
Without this, neither a strong “gradation” nor blood ties are enough — love withers. And when it stands still, love is like forgotten water: it turns into a puddle, then evaporates, then disappears.
But what fascinated Oton most was that, in the most fundamental bonds — mother, father, son, daughter — even when the absence is long, the tiniest spark is enough to reignite everything.
Years may pass, contact may vanish, but that essential link remains like a silent ember.
And with the slightest breeze, the smallest reunion, it all comes back — sometimes stronger, sometimes painful, but always alive.
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Oton wondered, then, how many loves might be sleeping out there, just waiting for a gesture, a look, a note forgotten in a mailbox.
Is there really such a thing as love that dies?
Or do we just change seasons and forget to water the flower?
And how often is longing, in truth, just the last drop of water trying to save the roots of something precious?
He knew — from both pain and joy — that every gradation demands its own kind of care,
and that the only truly impossible thing is to love alone.
Deep down, Oton thought, the secret is never to let the flower dry up.
Because even the strongest love needs, from time to time, to be watered by a gesture, a presence, a gaze.
And when we don’t water it, isn’t it fair to accept that some flowers won’t bloom again?
Oton liked to believe that even so, the garden of memory still keeps its seeds, waiting for an improbable ray of sunlight.
He thought the secret is never to let the flower dry up —
because even the strongest of loves needs, from time to time, to be watered by a gesture, by presence, by a look.
Oton got up slowly, walked to the window, and gazed at the world outside.
He felt a gentle urge to send a “thought of you” to someone.
And, on that morning, he realized: loving really is for those who dare to water — and to wait for the next flower.
The End 🌼
For anyone who wants to say something that cannot be kept silent.
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