He sits weeping, phone in hand and against right ear, bent over, face in hands. I recall my mother's body dying. Whom he calls "mother" is dying. I pray, silently. About what? Nothing. Just Here Praying. Possibly, better, Just Here. Or, Here With, or Here In. He cries. Nothing to do, doing takes place. A Rose smells of Itself. Purpose? Love happens. Not any particular Love. What is accomplished? Who knows? Why the question? Does there have to be - need to be - a goal? I am the Chaplain - they say-, but Here is no Chaplain, but Someone lives inside this, and someone who can look in. This is Love. Life. Questions? Walk in the rain, to know wetness, don't just talk about it or ask someone to tell you about it. One can only tell about, not It. Take a stroll, quietly smiling in the Sunlight. Where is the Sun? Breathe in and out Light. Love. I don't need some heaven to get to. Why would I - anyone -, Here?