During that summer, I talked with my mother and retiled her bathroom. I taught my kids how to catch a snake and ride a horse. I watched the days roll toward autumn and dreaded having to live in the world again. I didn’t trust myself. All my life, I had the luxury of asking why. Why do I live? Why do I love? Why do you love me? Why do we fight?

Asking why allowed me to look at the points of light that made my life flow. This question was an easy thing, a diversion. It was a lovely game of cause and effect that began with assumptions that never got anywhere or changed anything. The question, “Why?” permitted me the luxury of rarely having to deal with my day-to-day life. Now, in reaction to the end of my marriage, I had to look at the shadows. I had to ask, “How? How do I live, how do I love, how do I fight?”