Another beautiful pink and purple sunrise. Almost
forty degrees over soft, squishy snow.

Jenny and I looked through old newspapers at the local historical
society, and I saw a picture of her at 12.

Looking at that picture, I could believe that time is, in fact,
just another dimension, that but for the strange quirk of how we
experience time, we could see past and future as easy as looking
left and right, because I love that 12-year-old girl. I love her
at 12, long before I knew her, just as much as I do now, and as
much as I love her at 70. And I know that that 12-year-old loves
me, too.