Again, just like that day.

Did you notice, New York? The weather was exactly the same. Where were we? At this time, I was trying to find my children. Funny how, in those moments when you fear for their lives, you really don't believe you have lost them. But it's not until you actually lose one that you know that you never believed it before. You're scared, sure. You're terrified. But nothing ever approaches this.

I've been trying to understand for myself, what it means, life and death. We can't call our dead and make sure they're ok (I wonder how that felt for nomads, when a son broke off from the tribe, you never knew what happened to him, just like death, even though he could have been fine, raised a family, thrived-- no way to call, check in, visit once in a while). That magic hellhole in the park, the playground, when I walked by on the way back from work, talking to my sister, thinking, if only I could call Jesse like this. Thinking how jealous I was of everyone around me with children they could talk to. Feeling sorry for myself for a moment, then snapping back. Jesse wondered about the other side too. Enough that the only dream he ever wrote down was of his father, coming back to tell us there was in fact, another side. (Which, in keeping with his father's personality, you could apparently reach by bicycle through our front window if you pedaled fast enough.)

What if my sorrow is what the Buddhists say, an illusion? The desire to have Jesse back, an illusion? The difference between us, an illusion? I don't quite believe that either: empathy can't exist if individuality is an illusion.