Want me to write a piece of what it was like to sit there, the dust settling from white gravel road on the leaves that lined the narrow 8 inch gutter on each side. The sandy bottoms reminded me of a dry stream bed in Africa. The sun nose diving behind those high loblolly pine. I have an aching in my heart, and a pocket full of sand. So much life to live and yet no place left to go.
Nobody prepares you for the first blow. It comes, almost appearing magically, and then it is there. The burst of light, the warmth, the disorienting feeling of wheeling backward into a void. It's not so much the fact that it has happened; it's the knowing that we can never go back.