Love Is Reliable. Infatuation Is

When I Was Seven Years Old, I Fell In Love With A Series Published By Bobbs-merrill Called 'the Childhood Of Famous Americans.' In It, Historical Figures Like Clara Barton, Nancy Hanks, Elias Howe, Patrick Henry, And Dozens More Came To Life For Me As Children.

The Only Language She Could Speak Was Grief. How Could He Not Know That? Instead, She Said, "i Love You." She Did. She Loved Him. But Even That Didn't Feel Like Anything Anymore.

We Were A Family That Made Our Halloween Costumes. Or, More Accurately, My Mother Made Them. She Took No Suggestions Or Advice. Halloween Costumes Were Her Territory. She Was The Brain Behind My Brothers Winning Girl Costume, Stuffing Her Own Bra With Newspapers For Him To Wear Under A Cashmere Sweater And Smearing Red Lipstick On His Lips.

My Daughter, Grace, Was Not Killed By A Gun. She Died Suddenly At Age 5 From A Virulent Form Of Strep. As I Stood Stunned In A Church At Her Memorial, One Of The Hardest Things I Heard Someone Say Was, 'i'm Going To Go Home And Hug My Child A Little Tighter.' 'well, Good For You,' I Thought. 'i'm Going To Go Home And Scream.'

Even Now, There Are Still Days So Beautiful, I Almost Believe In God.