Life's a freaking mess. In fact, I'm going to tell Sarah we need to start a new philosophical movement: messessentialism instead of existentialism: For those who revel in the essential mess that is life. Because Gram's right, there's not one truth ever, just a bunch of stories, all going on at once, in our heads, in our hearts, all getting in the way of each other. It's all a beautiful calamitous mess. It's like the day Mr. James took us into the woods and cried triumphantly, "That's it! That's it!" to the dizzying cacophony of soloing instruments trying to make music together. That is it.

I gasp, because Isn't that just exactly what I've been doing too: writing poems and scattering them to the winds with the same hope as Gram that someone, someday, somewhere might understand who I am, who my sister was, and what happened to us.

I suddenly feel left out of a future that isn't even going to happen.

Grief is forever. It doesn't go away; it becomes part of you, step for step, breath for breath.

Music: what life, what living itself sounds like.

This is what I want: I want to grab my brother’s hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders.

People die, I think, but your relationship with them doesn't. It continues and is ever-changing.