And some things are worth fighting for.  Some things give you the energy.  The drive to make it happen.  Self-perpetuating.  Like a pendulum in motion.  Day after day the same thing.  And day after day you do it again.  You do it all over again.  The only thing that stops the motion ever asking why.  Because you don’t ask why of love.  You don’t ask how it comes, and you don’t ask how it goes.  To ask of it—to ask that question—you surfeit the answer.  For there are too many answers to it.  Depending on who you ask.  What you ask.

            Day after day it is the same thing.  Each day you do it again.  You live your life based on answers to questions you do not ask.  And everybody will tell you different.  Because you either love something, or you hate it.  Indifference is not really indifferent.  It is a form of hate—a lack of care.  There is no love in it, and so it is hate.  Hatred merely the absence of love.  And where love is absent, hatred abounds.  And you know.  You’ve had the feeling—that feeling about someone.  You know if you like someone or you don’t.  And it is the same with things.  Each of us with our own opinion.  Because some people like their boss, and some don’t.  And they’ll give you reasons why.  Reasons why they like someone.  Reasons why they don’t.  It’s just funny that it can be the same reasons why you like someone that someone else hates them—the same facts—some act done, some work—and the judgments of it after…  All of it merely a form of dialectics.  For you either love, or you hate.  The shades in between colored with these polar opposites.  What magnetically draws you to one person’s traits repels another.  And so it is question you should not ask.  A question multifarious.  With answers you cannot trust.  Because we’ve all asked it.  We’ve all asked it of someone—Do you love me?  Why do you love me?  And the answer we’re seeking remains unknown even in the best of answers.  Even in specific answers.  Personal answers.  From memories of experiences.  This leading to what we all fear—the conditions of love.

            It is the question David Threnody asked.  He asked it of Rosie in her bed in that time he spent in Mississippi, which led to the tears that she knew of—hastening his exit out the window with that Gibson guitar on his back…  Unconditional love—the question we all ask.  At some point in our lives we all ask it of someone—hoping for the right answer.  Hoping for the answer we want to hear without really knowing what it is.  And the pain.  The pain of time in this life.  The pain of time shared with someone—the memory that they once loved you—and what comes after.  After the love is gone…  Some would call it strength.  The knowledge of this.  The knowledge of it happening in your memory.  Remembering the answer to that question—do you love me, and why—and after, after the answer to that question changes.  Woman or man, it is the same.  The same with all things once loved that now you’re indifferent to, that now you hate.  Because time is the answer to the question—it is the measure of that change, held tight in your memory.  The synthesis to the dialectic.  The temporal attributes of this.  Of whether you love someone, or you hate them.

            And what of mothers?  What of fathers?  The unconditional love in the opposite sex of parentage?  For does a mother always love a son?  A father his daughter?  This what comes next.  What comes next in the story.  David’s return to Mississippi—to Biloxi, in the summer of 1941.  As a recruit for the Army Air Corps, to be trained in aircraft maintenance.  And the friend he met there—Johnny Tribout.  His story, relating to David.  And how it led to what happened in the war…