One Of The Things About Being Raised

But I Plucked A New, Different, Worldly Soul For Myself -- Maybe A Soul I Found In The Spray Thrown Up By The Surge Of That Distant African River As It Plummets Onto Black Rocks And Sends Up Into The Sun A Permanent Arc Of A Rainbow.

You Can't Rewind War. It Spools On, And On, And On, Looping And Jumping, Distorted And Cracked With Age, And The Stories Contract Until Only The Nuggets Of Hatred Remain And No One Can Even Remember, Or Imagine, Why The War Was Organized In The First Place.

I Don't Think We Have All The Words In A Single Vocabulary To Explain What We Are Or Why We Are. I Don't Think We Have The Range Of Emotion To Fully Feel What Someone Else Is Feeling. I Don't Think Any Of Us Can Sit In Judgment Of Another Human Being. We're Incomplete Creatures, Barely Scraping By. Is It Possible--from The Perspective Of This Quickly Spinning Earth And Our Speedy Journey From Crib To Coffin--to Know The Difference Between Right, Wrong, Good, And Evil? I Don't Know If It's Even Useful To Try.

I Always Knew Mum Loved Me - Tough, Look-after-yourself Love, As If She Knew She Wouldn't Always Be There.

I Love My Mother So Much, Because I See The Whole Of Her.