AMANDA...

Sometimes she sits silent, staring at the fire. Her cheeks half-lit pale. She's looking at something in the fire. Something warm. Something thta reminds her of home. Is it with me? Is it in the way she she brushes her hair each night? I watch her, but try not to get caught. She doesn't want me to see her, as she sits. She doesn't want me t0 notice her. Her life, I guess. As she lives it. Everry moment is important to me. Me paying attention to it gets away from her actual living...

But together, as a unit, we are calm, we are spaced evenly. Her fingers reach for a piece of yarn. (Because she sews)... And I see them reach... just like I watch her walk to church... erect... solid, stoic, her eyes focused on the church door.

These moments I try to preserve. But I can't, really, because I cannot capture Amanda. You can't bottle a butterfly. You can't measure goodness...

When I nod at the fire, it's because I think of her, as well, her... full, alive, breathing, looking through those green eyes stabbing me... and I want to cling to that moment... to see her life, really as a gift, something that I 'm lucky to be around for...