Maybe that’s the essence of grief — being frozen in a photograph while the rest of your life moves on without permission.

     

That version of me—the one trembling on the asphalt, clutching ten stolen dollars—isn’t the whole story.

     

She pulled over onto an unpaved section perilously close to the edge, beyond which the mountain dropped in a near vertical line.

     

The baton met my palm like a struck match: quick, hot, igniting something deep in my chest. I ran.

     

That cake was magical, not because of some kitchen sorcery that was evocated by skill. It was because it had a real kind of magic, love.