Why so hard to just put one foot out in front of the other and walk, erect. I used to be so secretly proud of my gait.
You hear little children yelling at the the playground and hear their voices echoing fifty years into the future . . .
Too heartbreaking to read—that final chapter. I keep putting it off.
When you look out through your eyes you see things differently: You see a fifty-year-old and he or she becomes an innocent little first grader.
And what if there is no afterlife in heaven, or the other places we are supposed to go to? Should that make me love You less? I cannot love You just to make sure I get into heaven.