All along the western front, the ringtones and blingtones screamed from the spires. "I can see you and be you," they cried. "Be me?" I inquired. "What am I to be while you are me? If my eyes are to be free, should they see you being me? Am I to bleed into the sea so the you that's me can be?"
Tears are tributaries. Cheeks the basins, sorrow the sea. Droughts are signs of good times, then, but what are the fish to breathe?
I love you, Great Grandma Bebe. I will miss your soft words and humor, you calling me precious, you smiling as we walked in the door. Please forgive me for not being there once you didn't know whether to smile. Internet spans the nations, right? And the heavens, I believe. You will see this somehow, or feel it straight from me, as I will feel you for the rest of my life.