You Should Have Seen Your Face," She

Now, Now," My Father Said. "let's Just Get The Bags." This Was Typical. My Father, The Lone Male In Our Estrogen-heavy Household, Had Always Dealt With Any Kind Of Emotional Situation Or Conflict By Doing Something Concrete And Specific. Discussion Of Cramps And Heavy Flow At The Breakfast Table? He Was Up And Out The Door To Change Oil On One Of Our Cars. Coming Home In Tears For Reasons You Just Didn't Want To Discuss? He'd Go Make You A Grilled Cheese, Which He'd Probably End Up Eating. Family Crisis Brewing In A Public Place? Bags. Get The Bags.

I Honestly Don't Have Many Creative Outlets. I'm Not Crafty - Although Motherhood Has Forced Me To Try To Be - And I Can Only Draw Trees, Beaches, And Clouds. I'm A So-so Cook Except For Deviled Eggs. Writing Has Always Been The One Thing I Feel That I Am Pretty Good At Doing. But It's Enough, Thank Goodness.

There Are Some Things In This World You Rely On, Like A Sure Bet. And When They Let You Down, Shifting From Where You've Carefully Placed Them, It Shakes Your Faith, Right Where You Stand.

The Silence Wasn't Like The Ones I'd Known Lately, Though: It Wasn't Empty As Much As Chosen. There's A Entirely Different Feel To Quiet When You're With Some-one Else, And At Any Moment It Could Be Broken. Like The Difference Between A Pause And An Ending.

How It Felt To Have The World Moving Beneath Me, A Hand Gripping Mine, Knowing If I Fell, At Least I Wouldn't Do It Alone.