I’m having a hard time now with, "But what about my life? What am I going to do with my life?" I feel like my thoughts and dreams for myself are these illusive grains of sand sipping though my fingers, falling through the hourglass faster than I can even watch (oh, good grief, how will I feel when I am ninety? Sheesh. Writing it out sounds a bit melodramatic). What will I do about these aspirations? These things I hope for myself? I like to muck around in this crazy selfish pit of mine.

Then Lily and I catch each other’s eyes.

She instantly brightens, her smile flashes, her cheeks round up causing her eyes to become beaming crescent moons, and she giggles, kicking her feet. Then I realize that I shouldn’t spend my time mooning over falling sand, but on the treasures I’ve got here at my feet.