The joy that isn't shared dies young.
And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
Need is not quite belief.
Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.