A woman recently entered my life, and left, and that time was over. Most of it was painful, yet some of it was lovely. The rareness of a mutual affection but still, to love is to choose. We cannot afford not to choose. I only know I never wish to be dead again. My body hurts most days; dysfunction and disease seem infinite. But I’ve flipped open the novel again, and I’ve heard my father’s voice, quiet, constant, just beyond the veil, in that cloud of unknowing. There’s a deep and obscure mission in it, coming from it. It glows from the center; it illuminates from within. I read. I meditate. I pray. And I think (as I always hope to think) that there is no way now to quit.