|Foggy Sunday Morning in Los Angeles|
I don't mourn things much anymore. The what ifs, the might haves, even the should haves. Last night, I changed Sophie, put her pajamas on, helped her to lie down in bed. I lit a candle to mask the smell. I turned off the overhead light and switched on the lamp, put a CD of world lullabies in the player and walked out of the room. I changed into a black shirt and a lacy jacket, my jeans warm from the dryer. I buckled the straps of my heels, brushed my hair, put on some red lipstick and a bit of perfume. I walked back into Sophie's room and blew out the candle, turned out the light and knelt on the bed, wiped the hair off her face and whispered, Good night. She pushed herself to sitting and lay back down, and it was then I felt the knife. She has never gone out at night, I thought, and what if she knows what she's missed? Don't tell me to give it a try. Don't tell me she lives a good life. Instead of twisting the knife, you can pull it out, wield it like a pen, type the keys to survival.