I think that was what made me cry. His writing that life is miracle enough. And it was that notion of a miracle, just that coursing of blood through veins, and not feeling it, not rising to feel it that made me sad. And yet he had died so young and so tragically. And here was me outliving him by some years and not feeling that wonder. At least not yesterday. And I am sorry for it. For I know the gifts that I have, and his love especially. Forgive me my self-pity. It is not good enough. I will try harder. I promise.
