I was nine when we moved to the village. A winding creek weaving through it parallel to the one main street where mom and pop stores and picturesque farmhouses scattered among modern family homes completed the illusion of a Hallmark movie ambiance.

Pain pours though her eyes. From the well of countless disappointments, where confusion and dying dreams decay, words, like polluted fish, escape towards the light.

Whipping me with debris from old insecurities and new responsibilities, the cold gusts from a tumultuous encounter at first evokes the gut-response of curling up in a self protective ball.