‘And what is it,’ I said softly, more to myself than to John, ‘what is it that people do? What do we live to do, the way a horse lives to run?’
I didn’t expect an answer, and John didn’t give one. He just moved his chair closer to mine and put an arm around my shoulders. ‘You’re awfully tired, aren’t you?’
I nodded, trying to hold back another wave of tears.
[…]
John brought his other arm around and folded me to his chest. He was still wearing his bulky down parka. It was like a pillow against my cheek. I could feel his heart beating beneath my coat. For a moment, I let the anxiety in my chest relax, let myself forget everything I had to do that day, let myself feel utterly safe. And then I understood that John was answering my question, even though he didn’t know he was. This is it, I thought. This is the part of us that makes our brief, improbable little lives worth living: the ability to reach through our own isolation and find strength, and comfort, and warmth for and in each other. This is what human beings do. This is what we live for, the way horses live to run.
