But if I could carry what I'm really about, a mere scrap of such a whisper, to see it, cradle it, sit on it, fall on it, fail on it, hide in it, rest in it—then I could stay with it through the dark, with a frail fragment of purpose to take another breath, and another after that one, for the possibility of another world, another dream, when one chapter has closed, and I am yet in the next one, a survivor who learned that some things are not meant to be held, but I am still there, holding.
