As much as I wish I could spend the time I need to do a good job on this series, I fear that, due to time and health constraints, I must postpone this series until after the “In-Between Alphabet” one has finished.

I don’t intend to abandon this series entirely, but it may take some time before I take this up again.  I apologize for the wait and hope you’ll stay tuned. 

For is a gift, a transfer from one entity to another. It is also reason, the underlying motivation guiding the past into the future, pushing agendas, the invisible impetus behind innumerable conscious and unconscious choices. For can be blind, petty, evil, but it can also be a gigantic heroism, a miniscule kindness. For results in consequences, but never bears any itself. It never stands alone.

She says For and in her hands is a brightly wrapped gift, ribbons curled, paper tucked and folded precisely just-so. He can tell she’s nervous, as she always is, and he never understands why. Every gift she gifts him, her time, her smiles, her attention, the perfectly-shaped space within the circle of her arms, that funny little bookmark she’d found in some tacky cluttered souvenir shop in the back-alley of a sleepy beach town, everything, everything were his treasures. He says nothing of that, though, just cradles the present gingerly in his hands. It’s not his birthday, or Christmas, no discernible made-up holiday he can think of, and when he asks her the reason, she smiles and says For and it’s every reason and no reason and the perfect reason all rolled up in one.

Each denotes singularity, an intrinsic individuality, an innate personification of oneness. It separates, placing invisible barriers.  At the same time, it highlights the similarities between disparate entities. Each is an identity of the members of a group, a badge of me-ness mixed up with us-ness, and doesn’t really care about the difference.

She taps each objects and names them, “Each”, meticulously sorted according to categories only conceived of in her mind, details only she can see. He is envious of the attention she places on inanimate objects, when he is sitting right in front of her, so he pushes one askew just so she’ll glare at him, so that he’s the focus of that laser-beam concentration. In bed, he asks her what category she’d place him in, and she tells him not to be ridiculous. Hurt, he turns away, until her fingers weave through the short hair at the base of his head, until she whispers words that puff against sensitive skin. You are not an Each, she croons to him, for you are the only and you have no category to be placed within.