Twenty-two years later, my feelings are similar to those of the girl who sat
on my hallway floor, knowing that she had placed most of her eggs in the
wrong basket. I gave up the chemical escapism the next day.
This perfect morning, another of those of late summer, windows open to the
sunrise, I reflect upon a recent choice which tested family bindings. A few
pages fell out, pages of the book I thought defined me.
So I revise, picking myself off of the floor again. I grieve, but not too much,
for a definition found not in the dictionary, but in reprieve from illusion.