Running is many things to me: survival, calmness, euphoria, solitude. It is proof of my corporeal existence, my ability to control my movement through space if not time, and the obedience, however temporary, of my body to my will. As I run I displace air, and things come and go around me, and the path moves like a filmstrip beneath my feet.

Sometimes I'm happy when he's gone, but I'm always happy when he returns. -Clare

He was not in the house. He did not come back that night. Days went by, and at last she understood that he would not return at all.

...all of our laments could not add a single second to her life, not one additional beat of the heart, nor a breath.

She looks up at me, still rocking. “Henry . . . why did me decide to do this again?” “Supposedly when it’s over they hand you a baby and let you keep it.” “Oh yeah.” --Wednesday, September 5, 2001

What we need,' Henry says, 'is a fresh start. A blank slate. Let's call her Tabula Rasa.

…she smiles in an exhausted but warm sort of way, as though she is a brilliant sun in some other galaxy