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128 pages, Paperback
First published July 10, 2010
When I was a boy, I did not think i could ever love anyone as much as I loved my mother. I married my wife, and told myself I could never love anyone more than I loved her. Now, gazing at my sleeping daughter, I dismissed both beliefs not as folly, but as greedy self-satisfying ardor. I trembled with emotion and wept, as I do often when I am alone driving to work, or at night when I am working in the yard, and see my daughters in my mind. Still, I cannot believe I have the privilege of being their father. When I consider it, I freeze up with fear. I think of all that could happen that might dissolve this dream. In this way, I have come to create a thing called prayer, which is not the hollow, grotesque thing called I was taught as a boy, but the thing that formed organically in my soul with the arrival, and then nurturing, of my daughters. My days are a prayer, my nights are too. My daughters feed the hole in me in ways my mother could not, and my wife would not. I am most alive when I am with them, and it is terrifying.