Soft air on the front porch at 6:30 am is a sure sign that I've survived. The smell of fresh-cut, green grass lawns is better than cinnamon. One of life's little pleasures is adjusting the car seat to account for no winter coat and excess layers. F-you wind-chill; the sunroof is open.
In 2005 the tenth of May began with all signs that better days were here. The dark days that blanketed the years since 2002 at our home were in the past. Is that the thing called HOPE? I don't know. I remember a sunny sky at noon and a warm southerly breeze at 3:30. The sun went down on that day with me on my elbows and knees, head on the floor, in the corner of a room at our house. I remember seeing the carpet and the shoes of a priest. Through all of the trauma and noise, I remember a slight pause where I realized this image would be unforgettable.
One thousand four hundred sixty-four suns have set. The shoes were laceless and black. There was no sun on May 11th. Rain. Overcast skies. Mud. If hope is one side of a coin, despair is on the other and they're separated by razor-thin chance.
Where do tears come from? What are they made of?
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