We were all alive, and we loved and hated and lived brilliant, messy existences. The air is thick with our wanting.

You’re going to have to go beyond yourself to keep him. That’s a tiring thing.

He doesn’t bother to talk, and I don’t either, but we look. We stare. And for a moment, I am sure of everything. For a second, with my bare feet on the fresh thick grass, there has not been, for any of us, even one mistake.

Being unfaithful to yourself is not as hard as you’d think. I will never compromise myself for someone else, I always thought. I’ll kill myself first. But it’s so easy. It’s like wearing earplugs. It’s as if you’ve put your head under the pillow during a thunderstorm, so that all you can hear is the faint sound of muffled rain.

And then there's the truth beyond that, sitting like an old rock under green creek water: none of these things matter. Right now, in this moment, we have love. We have it in the sound of my daughter's laugher, in Mom's and Georgia's locked fingers, in the warm pressure of J.T.'s hand. It will leave, and it will come again, and when it does I'll give up everything and take it. Just like an addict. Like dry grass in new rain. It's not something I'm proud of necessarily. Then again, maybe I am.

I watched, hoping she wouldn't come out too broke. It's all you can do for people sometimes, no matter how much you love them.

We are all somewhere else, during.