I wondered if the fixed smile–as I perceived it–wasn’t also a wince from hurt carried constantly conscious. Inescapable.
It’s the kind of fortitude and okayness that come only from soaking up the outpouring from a ripped open heart.
Love is a mess of romance and compassion. Compassion can remain.
Therapeutic tunnels promising greener grass succeed when they dump us back on the brown patch where we began.
As, by aging, wisdom besets me absent volition, a realization unfolds from within… some interpersonal relationships perhaps born of transaction or convenience evolve to survive…
After a son-to-father preface, list of 11 best free videos of the carol