Still, I look down, and the grass is so green, I cannot understand how it does not wither and die with sorrow. ~Song of the Sparrow

My sparrow, she flickers and wakes and sings and sings.

The birch trees loom ahead like a brotherhood of ghosts.

The song is languid and speaks of love and loneliness and loss. Why does love seem to go with the sad things?

I watch her as she leaves. Everything about her is fluid as a river. Her messy hair, her xylophone voice, the strokes of her paintbrush. Even her camouflage army jacket hangs loose, flowing like ribbons.

As I say the words, I realize how true they are. And maybe that's the trick to getting through it, through life: realizing that everybody, including ourselves, is lugging around some kind of screwed-up baggage. Maybe we are put here to help each other carry the loads.

Merry Christmas, I whisper to myself. Merry Christmas, Nate.