Skin

Why, do you suppose, are we born into the particular skin we wear?

Into one particular slot in this world when so many are available?

If Rian does not glance into the mirror - and Rian despises mirrors - I am more or less defined by my sorroundings. Why I am here, and not stalking game on the serenghetti? Living out of a dumpster in LA? Gathering fallen onions in the fields of Walla Walla?

I am lucky. I enjoy my life. But I do not deserve it.

Today, looking at a multitude of young, dirty, hungry faces, Rian felt prickles at the back of my neck.

Fate is fickle, karma perhaps flawed, and there but for the Grace of God...