We could make it work, you know. This drive of yours to persist all the way to death wouldn’t have to have the final word. Remember how often you talked about love? Remember how hard you laughed — with friends, with lepers, with children? Couldn’t that be the work that drives you? Couldn’t we carry that work together, or are you so determined to be alone? What if the poured-out sacrifice was healing oil instead of ebbing blood? What if the last touch we knew in this world was a loving caress instead of piercing spear? I’m trying to show you another way. Could we not break open a jar of blessing? Must it be our hearts that break?
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