Dragon-Con was amazing; I'm still recovering. But here's a sneak preview of some of the things to come. Photos galore. Stay tuned...

This is Steven's daughter, Taylor. She loves her Webkinz and spent a good bit of the afternoon glued to my laptop, creating an environment for her new birthday pets.

This is Steven's son, Triston. He got a little carried away with the sunscreen--said he was turning into Iceman. The hands in the photo weren't the half of it.

I took this at the Georgia Aquarium. I love weird life forms.

Taylor (Steven's daughter) at age eight, on learning about the Cyclorama (the circular diorama in Atlanta's Grant Park that depicts the Civil War):

"The South lost???"

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A special thanks to Dwayne Melancon of Genuine Curiosity for this photo submission to the Scavenger Hunt.

Sitting in a church,
listening to my friend’s wife
as she remembers him to us
in our respectful silence.

She tells the story of their first date,
nothing fancy—dinner and a movie,
a slapstick film I don’t remember.
Bill loved that kind of silliness.

He laughed until he cried
while his future wife
eyed him suspiciously.
Slapstick wasn’t her thing.

As the credits rolled he turned to her,
his eyes still gleaming,
his sides still convulsing in giggles.
“Wasn’t that funny???”

Her expression politely stoic,
she shrugged, noncommittal,
and he saw her—truly saw her.
He had a gift for seeing people.

Wiping the tears from his face,
he smothered his laughter
and looked her straight in the eye.
“You’re right, it really wasn’t that funny.”

Standing in the graveyard
the overcast skies
reflect my isolation.
Perfect weather for a funeral.

His family at the grave,
we who worked with him
are scattered by the stones,
unsure of our place.

We pretend a certain friendship,
yet we never touch each other, even here.
Funeral behavior isn’t covered
in the office manual.

My heart cries out as I weep alone.
I reach for solace,
but no one returns my gaze.
Where is our comfort now?

The family’s turn
to bury husband and father—
ceremonious heaps of dirt
lowered onto the coffin.

The shovel is passed
to Bill’s small son,
no more than five years old.
The blade alone outweighs him.

Following their example,
he digs into the soil,
piles on as much as he can lift,
and spins awkwardly toward the grave.

Too late, he realizes his mistake.
A flash of surprise—he loses his balance;
falling in slow motion,
he tilts toward inevitability.

Quick as a wink,
a mother’s sure hand
darts forth to capture a shoulder
and rescues him from disaster.

Standing behind him,
she can not see his face,
but from across the grave
I have a better vantage point.

For one fleeting moment
time stands eternal,
my heart imprinted forever
by his mischievous grin.

As swiftly as it arrived,
it is gone, and I the only witness.
He smothers his amusement
as Bill once smothered his.

But I saw it—Bill’s smile;
even in a graveyard, I saw it,
and Bill and I were laughing
when the sun broke through the clouds.

[A memory of a moment in Italy, in which my brief encounter with a German woman reminded me of the power, and the ultimate simplicity, of human connection.]