It's the unknown that I fear, the bites of memories that still have no connections.

I created an icicle sculpture in the snow. White on white.

There are many words and definitions I have never lost. But some I am only just beginning to truly understand.

Sometimes there's not a better way. Sometimes there's only the hard way.

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.

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

A single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener. So our prospects brighten . . .