2001 Rhiannon is a little girl, just a month over two. She is a play by herself, hum on the potty, Elmo obsessed dollop of a girl, with blonde pigtails and wide brown eyes. I am just past my twenty fourth birthday, in an unsure place in my life, ironing my shirt in the guest room, with the only surety I have playing by my feet with found objects. The phone rings. It is an old fashioned phone by today's standards, a black princess with a purring ringer, and a cord connected to the wall. It is my husband on the other line. My husband of only a year, one year of tumult and ships passing in the proverbial night. I turn on the television, per his command and am in time to see a second plane fly into a second tower. I sit on the bed in my bra, my wrinkled shirt forgotten. Baby Rhiannon sits, unknowing, singing to herself by my feet. My only surety, an anchor to reality. In a month, I will be pregnant again, never questioning bringing another child into the evil, evil world. 2002 I am sev