I am in the woods when she calls to me. Her voice is full of fun and laughter and cuts through the dark growths I am lost in. Like a kid, I follow it, cutting my legs and arms and chest on the branches and brambles and thorns. It would be so much easier to stay in the dark, but her voice has such song in it and something within me yearns to it. When I finally come to the clearing, I see her in the reservoir of goodness that belongs to me but that I have hidden from myself. She laughs and splashes in the cool water. Beckoning. I am afraid to go in. Something old whispers to me: "This cannot exist." Yet I am here and fall on the shore's edge. The stones turn dark with tears. How can this be?