The other day I found her passport in her drawer when I was putting away my dad's laundered handkerchiefs. I wish I hadn't. For the purpose of my story, she should have it with her. I sat on my dad's bed and flipped through page after empty page. No stamps. No exotic locales. No travel-worn smudges or creases. Just the ID information and my mother's black-and-white photo which if it were used in a psychology textbook on the meaning of facial expressions would be labelled: Obscenely, heartbreakingly hopeful.

Conversing with children is a fine art.... An art form that demands large amounts of both honesty and misdirection. Or maybe discretion is a better word.

But love, like a mushroom high compared with the buzz from cheap weed, outlasts grief.

If, along the way, something is gained, then something will also be lost.

She was becoming sad. There is no joy involved in following others' expectations of yourself

Is it wrong to trust in a beautiful lie if it helps you get through life?

There are no windows within the dark house of depression through which to see others, only mirrors.