Libby and I go places together, and we look like the Gilmore Girls. If you didn't know our tragedy, you probably couldn't tell how screwed up we are with our grief.  You'd probably see a mother and her only child, a daughter, moving in synchronous motions.  You'd see the complicated dance of adolescence and motherhood.  Unless you looked closely, you wouldn't see the cracks in our bodies.  We are both broken.

Our relationship has weathered this disaster, full of ups and downs.  We've cried and yelled and hugged and cried some more.

We have even laughed sometimes.  It helps keep our sanity from drifting too far away.  

Sanity isn't close to our lives.  My law partner joked about bringing me coffee or chocolate or sanity.  I didn't reply the truth:  I need all of these, but bring me a double sanity, please, so I have a spare when I need it.

Send me a Starbucks gift card.

Order me some chocolates.

Bring me a book, so I can escape my life.

Help me find my sanity.  It's elusive.