adrenalin to feel any pain.
The wind was barely blowing now, but to his surprise it brought a voice
to him. Rebecca’s voice. Unmistakable. And four words that he much
wanted to hear: “I love you, Jack.”
He turned, bewildered.
She was nowhere in sight, yet her voice seemed to have been at his ear.
He said, “I love you, too,” and he knew that, wherever she was, she
heard him as clearly as he had heard her.
The snow had slackened off. The flakes were no longer small and hard
but big and fluffy, as they had been at the beginning of the storm. They
fell lazily now in wide, swooping spirals.
Jack turned away from the pit and went back into the house to call an
ambulance for Carver Hampton.
We can embrace love; it’s not too late.
Why do we sleep, instead, with hate?
Belief requires no suspension to see that Hell is our invention.
We make Hell real; we stoke its fires.
And in its flames our hope expires.
Heaven, too, is merely our creation.
We can grant ourselves our own salvation.
All that’s required is imagination.
-THE BOOK OF COUNTED SORROWS