“Does all the beauty of the world stop when you die?”

“No,” said the Old Oak; “it will last much longer – longer than I can even think of.”

“Well, then,” said the little May-fly, “we have the same time to live; only we reckon differently.

It was true, Ben at age two was an astonishing thing. He’d demand love outright, grab at a breast or an arm, but as soon as he had enough affection, and that came quickly, he’d go completely limp, play dead until you let him go.

In that moment, we knew that we were all weird, all in this together, and that addressing our own suffering, while learning not to inflict it on others, is part of the work we’re all here to do. So is love, which comes in so many forms and can be directed at so many things.

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