Well, As My Dad Would Say, It

You Could Not Be Filled With Hate And Be Beautiful. Like Any Other Girl, I Wanted To Be Beautiful. But I Was Filled With Hate.

His Love For My Mother Wasn't About Looking Back And Loving Something That Would Never Change. It Was About Loving My Mother For Everything -- For Her Brokenness And Her Fleeing, For Her Being There Right Then In That Moment Before The Sun Rose And The Hospital Staff Came In. It Was About Touching That Hair With The Side Of His Fingertip, And Knowing Yet Plumbing Fearlessly The Depths Of Her Ocean Eyes.

What Did Dead Mean, Ray Wondered. It Meant Lost, It Meant Frozen, It Meant Gone.

But, He Also Said It Because Part Of Him Wanted More Of Her, This Cold Woman Who Was Not Exactly Cold, This Rock Who Was Not Stone.

The Damage Can Fester Under Layers Of Time And Change, And An Ignorant, Thoughtless Remark Can Easily Reopen The Wound.