I play until my fingers are blue and stiff from the cold, and then I keep on playing. Until I'm lost in the music. Until I am the music--notes and chords, the melody and harmony. It hurts, but it's okay because when I'm the music, I'm not me. Not sad. Not afraid. Not desperate. Not guilty.

The world goes on, stupid and brutal, but I do not. Can't you see? I do not.

I'm wishing he could see that music lives. Forever. That it's stronger than death. Stronger than time. And that its strength holds you together when nothing else can.

My father had put these things on the table. I looked at him standing by the sink. He was washing his hands, splashing water on his face. My mamma left us. My brother, too. And now my feckless, reckless uncle had as well. My pa stayed, though. My pa always stayed. I looked at him. And saw the sweat stains on his shirt. And his big, scarred hands. And his dirty, weary face. I remembered how, lying in my bed a few nights before, I had looked forward to showing him my uncle's money. To telling him I was leaving. And I was so ashamed.

Airports should all belong to the same country. The country of Crappacia. Or Bleakovania. Or Suckitan.

A new word. Bright with possibilities. A flawless pearl to turn over and over in my hand, then put away for safekeeping.

It's only the body that's gone. Only the body. There's a part that doesn't go in the ground, a part that stays inside you forever.