My heart feels not so much in my chest as in my hands. I am carrying it along swiftly, as though I have become the messenger for what is going on inside me.

There's a big moon shining on the yard, chalking our way onto the lane and along the road. Kinsella takes my hand in his.

As soon as he takes it, I realise my father has never once held my hand, and some part of me wants Kinsella to let me go so I won't have to feel this.

It's a hard feeling but as we walk along I begin to settle and let the difference between my life at home and the one I have here be.

He takes small steps so we can walk in time. I think about the woman in the cottage, of how she walked and spoke, and conclude that there are huge differences between people.

Will we always find faults with our accommodations because of the turmoil in our own hearts?

She appeals to the German brain, if not the German heart. She doesn't inspire strong emotions. But she does inspire strong thinking about what is truly best for the nation.

Why do we need words when sometimes silence is the perfect answer? Why do we need words when they are different than how we really feel...

She was benediction, a touch of faith, life itself coursing through my veins collapsed in age and turmoil, and to my fatigued and weary heart, a new and vibrant throb.