By opening the camera's shutter for a fraction of a second, you form an image of the energy reflected off the objects in your viewfinder

Tonight, we read about Piglet and Pooh, Rabbit and Small. Rabbit is terribly upset and looking for Small. Small, as it turns out, is a beetle. A very small beetle. He is on Pooh's back the whole time Pooh, Piglet, Rabbit, Christopher Robin and even Eeyore, they have no idea and so search through the Six Pines area of the Hundred Acre Woods.

Mom delights in knowing where Small is. She remembers. I do not remember so perhaps read a bit fast, turn the pages with more mission than our previous stories. I look at her not knowing what is next, even though the words are read aloud from my mouth, even though I could quickly turn the page and look into the future. She looks at me and grins. She knows where Small is, and delights in her knowing. Her eyes, they are mischievous. Her eyes, they are shining. Her eyes tell me that Small is right there, right on Pooh's back! She's a child right now, eager, wiggling, anticipating the next moment of discovery.

I finish the story, rub my fingers through her hair, kiss her ten times on her cheek and forehead. She responds better to more than she does less, a big grin crosses her face and I think at this moment she's stolen my heart forever. A tremendous fear flashes though me, how will I ever carry on without her?

I tell her I'll be right back. In that instant, she is gone from me, her eyes drift past my face to the wall, the window, wherever it is she goes. She shows me how to say Goodbye. You just leave.

I have a job to do. I don't want to do it, but it must be done. When I'm at the highest point of the house, doing that job, I find something, the suitcase she told me about years ago. She wanted us to open it and go through it together. She said, it's something special and I want to share it with you. Something futile always kept us from that something special. My schedule or hers. She had hope there, excitement there, she wanted to open it up for me, share herself with me. Fickle thing time is, importance one can no longer remember. Tonight, nothing can pull me from the content of this suitcase.

Inside, there is a life on paper and envelopes, cards and diaries, diplomas and photos. Blue ink on yellowed paper that crumbles at my touch. Handwriting of a young woman, yet penmanship recognizable, slants and curves I know well. The musty smell of aged paper, the disarming surprise of her youth. I touch it all, her typed acceptance letters from Wellesley and Vassar. Her notes figuring a courseload that will have her graduating in three years in the Vassar program, because that's all the money she has. Her leather-bound diaries, her dance cards from West Point, completely filled. Her prom programs. Her class notes from Philosophy and Music History, her transcripts, her tassel from graduation. Her calling my grandmother, Mom, and my grandfather, Pop. My grandparents, her parents. Her life from 17 to 21, in her pen.

She's on trains, on dates, playing tennis, basketball, squash, hockey, golf. She's at the movies, at the theatre, with her friends at lunch, on a blind date, with her Pop and Mom for dinner or breakfast or where she can squeeze them into her busy schedule. She's swimming and sunning and riding horses. She studying and shopping, taking taxis, having two cocktails with a cute sailor. She's surprised for her 18th birthday. She finally faces her pile of mending. She buys a new pair of shoes, goes to a dance with my Aunt Nancy.

On this day in 1943, it rained. She thought about going home, but didn't. She played cards with Janet. Janet and her boyfriend, Jay, got into an argument. She went to the movies. Today, in 1944 she was at a cabin on Lake George with her Mom, on a motor boat, playing shuffleboard and badminton, canoeing. Her mother made over her white dress and it looked swell that night. That's all she wrote about the dress. I wonder where she went, who saw her in that dress, how she held her hands, crossed her legs. Today in 1945, she took the train back to New York, went to the dentist and bought a new hat. She went to see "The Voice of a Turtle" with her mother, and said it to be, awfully good.

I touch the pages, the ink of her pen left on the paper so many years ago. It feels as if we're holding hands. It feels as if she is my sister and my Grandmother my mother. It feels as if she is my daughter. I want to meet her, want to be one of the friends in her words. It feels like if I were there, I'd watch her. It feels as if I'm breathing under water.

Tonight, in 2007, her daughter rubs lotion on her legs, trims her fingernails, rubs her forehead, pulls her fingers through her hair, reads a story to her, gazes on her smile so rare, curls up beside her and loves her so. And hopes she knows I am here. And, if not, then maybe on a train with her, a play with her, a movie, or buying a new hat.

Lord, you play a hard one, taking him so shockingly fast and then so very slowly unraveling her. All I ask from you is that you continue to inspire my faith in you to trust that in your power, I can understand and accept that this is your will.