Happiness. It's relative.
The light that night was meaningless, feeble; it could do no more than pretend hope, tease the drowning, be a marker for the dead. The light did last, though, despite its failure. It is still there.
You never know the last time you’re going to do something. I used to think about that, about the last time my son would put his hand on my shoulder when we were walking. And then he didn’t do it anymore but I don’t… Continue Reading “Yesterday at Whitefish Point”
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