I Heard A Sigh, As Though The

What Else Is There To Write About Than Love And Loss?

Our House Was Littered With Books- In The Kitchen, Under The Beds, Stuck Between The Couch Pillows--far Too Many For Her The Ever Finish. I Suppose I Thought If My Grandmother Kept Up Her Interests, She Wouldn't Die; She'd Have To Stay Around To Finish The Books She Was So Fond Of. "i've Got To Get To The Bottom Of This One," She'd Say, As If A Book Were No Different From A Pond Or A Lake. I Thought She'd Go On Reading Forever But It Didn't Work Out That Way.

Here's The Thing About Luck...you Don't Know If It's Good Or Bad Until You Have Some Perspective.

My Grief Was Cold. It Was Nothing To Share. It Was Nothing To Speak About, Nothing To Feel.

I Knew What It Was To Yearn For A Life So Distant It Seemed That It Had Never Been Anything More Than A Dream.