I walk a path.

A path of broken glass,

sharp rocks,

pitfalls and perils.

Darkness.

Progress is slow.

Painfully slow.

I think I'm alone

on the path.

Focused on my next step,

I do not look left or right.

and when I look back on the path,

I see only my blood on the trail behind me.

When I fall, I feel only my pain,

hear only my curses.

I don't bother to cry out for help; I'm alone on this path.

But sometimes, if I listen,

Truly listen, to the darkness around me,

I think I can almost hear others

on the path,

making their way through the darkness,

almost make out their curses,

almost see, in the darkness, their even-darker shadows.

And I think that I could help them,

if they were truly there.

If I could see them

on the path.

If I could find them

in the darkness.

If they would only call out

for help.

Listening to that old '60s song

(You know the one)

I ask my six-year old

"Where DO all the lonely people come from?"

With no hesitation, the answer:

"Desert sand."

With hesitation, my response:

"I don't understand."

With mustered patience, the reply again:

"Desert sand."

I am still not getting it.

As patient as a six-year old can be,

She explains:

"All the lonely people

It's like they're living in desert sand.

And all they need to do

Is to stick their hand up out of the sand

So that someone can pull them out."

Astonished, I say

"That's very insightful,"

The word confuses her.

"Whatever. Anyway, they'll be okay.

Unless the mummy gets 'em."

Was it fate

that brought you into our lives?

It's easier to believe in fate

than pure chance.

There's no chance, with chance,

that we deserved you.

That we did something so right

that something as fickle as chance

dictated that you be ours.

Ergo, fate.