When my grandmother died I remember sitting alone, rigid on her bed. Or at the funeral home. . .or wherever people happened to be at the time. I remember people breezing in and out of a room, stopping only long enough to hug me tightly so that they could draw strength to brace themselves. I remember being repremanded for my tears. Hugging my mother was like clutching steel. It was like she wasn't even there. It's like that a lot, you know. The times when I need someone to grab hold of me and hug me tightly so that I don't fall apart. . . no one is there. I fall into myself, seeking strength that isn't there. Solace that doesn't exist. More than anything in the world, I want a lap that I can crawl into. I want arms that are not my own that are willing to comfort me. I want to know more than one-sided love.