Falling, falling, falling. Looking deep into the past 11 years, still wondering why? Why they never answered my letters? Why they chose not to know how their selfless act breathed life back into a dying man? Why I can't have the opportunity to thank them myself, while others have enjoyed that privilege?
Did I ever write something wrong, or was their pain simply too deep? Five times I tried to reach out to them, and each time I was answered with silence. I am aware that I need to respect their decision, but it is still frustrating to not know something, to not be able to share my feelings about what they gave to myself, and the four others that received transplants from their child.
So much is unknown. Was this child living with parents? Grandparents? Uncles and aunts? What did he want to be? What caused him to lose his life in such a violent way?
My brain debates the wisdom of trying one more time, to reach out again. Will they even be able to be contacted after all this time? Are they still living in the same place? Do I even have the words that can persuade them to connect with me, when nothing has in the past?
Will it even matter to them after all this time?
the state of windmills - This is a nice series of old windmills the USPS put out in 1980 the one in *Virginia* is located in Williamsburg, known as the Robertson Windmill. the on...
3 days ago