She Hadn't Wanted To Be Loved Carefully,

Hope, How She Had Grown To Hate The Word. It Was An Insideious Seed Planted Inside A Person's Soul, Surviving Covertly On Little Tending, Then Flowering So Spectacularly That None Could Help But Cherish It.

It's Special, Grandparents And Grandchldren. So Much Simpler. Is It Always So, I Wonder? I Think Perhaps It Is. While One's Child Takes A Part Of One's Heart To Use And Misuse As They Please, A Grandchild Is Different. Gone Are The Bonds Of Guilt And Responsibility That Burden The Maternal Relationship. The Way To Love Is Free.

...she's Understood The Power Of Stories. Their Magical Ability To Refill The Wounded Part Of People.

She Did As She Felt, And She Felt A Great Deal.

It Was The Sibling Thing, I Suppose. I Was Fascinated By The Intricate Tangle Of Love And Duty And Resentment That Tied Them Together. The Glances They Exchanged; The Complicated Balance Of Power Established Over Decades; The Games I Would Never Play With Rules I Would Never Fully Understand. And Perhaps That Was Key: They Were Such A Natural Group That They Made Me Feel Remarkably Singular By Comparison. To Watch Them Together Was To Know Strongly, Painfully, All That I'd Been Missing.