But She Was Waiting Patiently. She No

In My 20s, I Railed Against Anything 'spiritual', I Thought It Was All Crap.

It's Hard, Because When You Talk About Process Or Your Characters Ruling Your Narrative, It Sounds Like You Have No Control, But Obviously You're Ultimately The Author, So You Do Have Control.

What I Think Was Hardest For Me To Realize Was That He Had Tried Each Time To Stop Himself. He Had Killed Animals, Taking Lesser Lives To Keep From Killing A Child

The Shadow Of Years Was Not As Big On His Small Body. He Knew I Was Away . But When People Left They Always Came Back.

His Love For My Mother Wasn't About Looking Back And Loving Something That Would Never Change. It Was About Loving My Mother For Everything -- For Her Brokenness And Her Fleeing, For Her Being There Right Then In That Moment Before The Sun Rose And The Hospital Staff Came In. It Was About Touching That Hair With The Side Of His Fingertip, And Knowing Yet Plumbing Fearlessly The Depths Of Her Ocean Eyes.