Sometimes a day starts with sunshine and coffee and tears.  Not chest wracking sobs, but the tears that spill from fullness.  From a night spent with friends who let you talk about your lost daughter.  From the day ahead, which will bring a novel—a work of time and grief and healing— to fruition.  From the way cottonwood seeds fall like snow but also rise on invisible thermals like tiny hawks.  Sometimes it is enough to love the ones who can not love you back.  To inhabit your body with its catalog of pains and pleasures.  To be on land that brings forth food.  And to remember.