We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists.

Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.

And then he smiles, and in all the places around the globe where it's night, day breaks.

I don't know how the heart withstands it.

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

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.

And why do English people sound smarter than the rest of us? Like they should be awarded the Nobel Prize for a simple greeting?