The Lost Lamb, The Lost Bread, The Lost Boys

Lyla Jones claims that she is like a little lost puppy making her way back home. I, on the other hand, feel like a baby whose mother left her on a doorstep in hopes that she would be taken in and find a better life. Of course, my 'mother' is acting more on her own desire for a better life than her desire for me to have one. And she left me on the doorstep in -40 degree weather. I keep trying to tell myself that I should not be as distraught as I am. In the overarching web of the world, this is not so devastating a life event. Nonetheless, my neck is starting to stiffen and I can feel a familiar tightness, the sort that tends to preceed the formation of a lump in my throat, pulling against my chest. Eid Mubarak Sarah.