I had to stay quiet. No one could know what was happening. I had to lie perfectly still or things would get even worse.
Yet, don’t think for a moment that we five were not swept along in the undeniable currents that carried Neil beyond himself.
All a writer really has is time. Time to think. Time to read. Time to write.
I have unwittingly raised a daughter too much like me: restless, willful, and walled against the fragility of life.
I was reminded of the beauty found in fragile things.
