Note from the front

You think you know the people in your life, and your own self. You think you're aware of your feelings; you understand, even if dimly and uncertainly at times, your reactions and motivations, and you're a little proud of so rarely being out of control. You handle things; it's what you do, mostly for all the people around you but also for yourself.

You've said, "I love you" to these folks many times. They're not family, but some things are thicker than blood; some experiences bring you closer to friends than family history ever could to relatives. The financial times, the medical treatments, the legal stumbles all shared have convinced you that you're as close as you could be to another person.

And so when you hug her—when you feel her little-girl body clinging to you—you almost have a feeling of satisfication, it's almost a vindication that yes, you were right, you do love each other and are right to do so. But then the pediatric-wing bed is just a little too small for both of you, so you lift her up into your lap. And her hair is dishevelled from a week's stay, and it's getting in your nose, and you'd like to lean away; but she won't let you. She's hanging on, and you're letting her, because it feels good and because you need to even though you didn't know you needed to.

And ten minutes later, as you walk through the lobby, you're a wreck on the inside. You get in the car, and the first song on the radio makes things worse; you can feel the tears welling up. But on the outside you're handling it, because that's what you do.

Yeah, of course you are.