Its early. The kid and I are in our PJs. Quiet wood surrounds us both in the kitchen while morning sun blazes through the window on to her face. “Are you making a mess?”, I inquire. A mouthful of yogurt and all is silent save for The Cowboy Junkies Sweet Jane on the radio. She answers, “Yep” and I start to cry because of a beauty that would render an atheist silent on the subject of angels. That, and the gnawing, heartsick suggestion that I would ever be without her. Friend, nobody is ready for that.