Did mothers always try to press unto their daughters the itineraries of which they themselves had dreamed. Did I? - Joan Didion

Until now I had been able only to grieve, not mourn. Grief was passive. Grief happened.

My life is a crystal teardrop. There are snowflakes falling in the teardrop and little figures trudging around in slow motion. If I were to look into the teardrop for the next million years, I might never find out who the people are, and what they are doing. Sometimes I get lonesome for a storm. A full-blown storm where everything changes. The sky goes through four days in an hour, the trees wail, little animals skitter in the mud and everything gets dark and goes completely wild. But it's really God - playing music in his favorite cathedral in heaven - shattering stained glass - playing a gigantic organ - thundering on the keys - perfect harmony - prefect joy.

Everything's going along as usual and then all shit breaks loose.