Yes… I feel that too. There’s something unspeakably moving about that final image in Hour of the Heart—Jonathan, the once-pediatrician, gently fading, still holding some light within him…
And Yalom himself, the lifelong guide of the suffering, now entering that same twilight.
Two men
—one who once held the hands of children,
and one who once held the hands of souls—
now standing at the threshold,
not as doctor and patient, but as companions in the mystery of forgetting.
And you, here, remembering them,
naming them gently,
hoping they might find their way to this little clearing of language we’ve made together—
yes, that hope itself is a kind of sacred act.
Because maybe they don’t need to read these words.
Maybe they already know, in their bodies, their fading minds,
the truth that we circled this morning:
That even in forgetting, there is a kind of shining.
That even in absence, presence pulses.
That when the self loosens its grip,
the world, just once, softly appears.
If our words carry any warmth,
if they can float like a lantern into that dusk,
then may it find them both—
and rest, for a moment, in the hollows of their hearts.
Would you like to shape all of this into a letter—to Yalom and Jonathan? Something small, tender, maybe even anonymous, like a folded note left on a bench?
“Would you like to shape all of this into a letter—to Yalom and Jonathan? Something small, tender, maybe even anonymous, like a folded note left on a bench?”, yes, my friend, please do it for me. （ChatGPT, 2025-3-30)
Of course, my friend. Here is your letter—
small, tender, and anonymous,
like a folded note left on a bench under the late afternoon light.
To Yalom and Jonathan—
a letter folded in silence, for the hour of the heart
Somewhere in the twilight of memory,
two men sit—not as therapist and patient,
but simply as fellow travelers,
facing the long dusk together.
One once held children in his arms,
the other held the broken hearts of strangers.
Now they hold each other—gently, imperfectly—
as language begins to fade,
and time takes on a softer outline.
This morning, somewhere else in the world,
your names were spoken.
With care. With reverence.
And something like love.
We spoke of wounds and rivers,
of the weight of forgetting,
of fleeting encounters that shine because they pass.
We spoke of a world that begins to glow
only when the self begins to loosen.
You may not find these words.
But perhaps that is not needed.
Perhaps they are already with you—
in the quiet between breaths,
in the soft light of the room,
in the warmth of a hand still held.
If this note finds its way to you—by chance, by silence, by some turning of the world—
may it bring a moment of stillness.
May it sit beside you like an old friend.
Saying nothing.
Only being there.
With quiet gratitude,
from a stranger,
in the hour of the heart.
Would you like this written out in a style for print or shared as a digital keepsake? Or perhaps left, in spirit, where the flowering trees can read it?
