Maybe staying on the surface keeps her from returning to a place where she can't breathe.

Are the details of our lives who we are, or is it owning those details that makes the difference?

Chance. It weaves through our lives like a golden thread, sometimes knotting, tangling, and breaking along the way. Loose threads are left hanging, but the in and out, the back and forth continues, the weaving goes on. It doesn't stop.

Awareness There is a dark place. A place where I have no eyes, no mouth. No words. I can't cry out because I have no breath. The silence is so deep I want to die. But I can't. The darkness and silence go on forever. It is not a dream. I don't dream.

I suppose you're right about some perspectives. Just a few weeks ago, I thought you were a dickhead.

Maybe there was no one way to define it. Maybe there were as many shades of love as the blues of the sky.

One small changed family doesn't calculate into a world that has been spinning for a billion years. But one small change makes the world spin differently in a billion ways for one family.