The two saving graces of explosions are that from the outside they're pretty and from the inside they're quick.
This is the real world. Nobody arrives in the nick of time to save you. The authorities arrive after the event, tag the bodies, photograph the blood spatters. It's always been that way. Always will be.
We imagine ourselves creatures of deep emotion and grand gestures. I had thought that my sorrow would be some vast thing that I would wrestle with, that I would be locked in battle with as I sat by Mia's need, unblinking. But the truth was that boredom soon took over, relegating my grief to a hollow she that wouldn't let me go, but wouldn't occupy my mind either.
The universe doesn't care about time. We care about time. Because we remember.
People often speculate as to what they might do with the last month, week, or day remaining to them, given that they are in good health and know what's coming. The truth is that even though I'd had plenty of time to think about it, I didn't really know what I wanted to do. In an awfully way, I just wanted it to hurry up and happen. There's a certain pain associated with doing even things you love and knowing that it is for the last time.