Missing

What is missing when we miss something?  What changes when it reappears?  Is it a matter of practicing patience in its absence?  Of remembering more vividly, of living it internally, with trust that it continues to live beyond the realm of ready perception?  There are people, there are voices, there are bodies and places that I miss seeing, that I miss hearing, that I miss sensing.  But they are still there.  The rush of their presence, in some shadow form, after waiting outside the door for an eternity, reminds me that they are always there, seen or unseen.  And it is only my forgetting that makes them so far away.  But I am human.  And sometimes I am filled with only the walls around me that have yet to be covered.  But they will be.  And the world from before, its people, its voices, its places, will always be. I cannot lose them.  Maybe our world grows larger the more that we miss.