There is no real ending.
It’s just the place where you stop the story.
December knew, of course, that the action of turning a page, of ending a chapter or of shutting a book, did not end a tale. Having admitted that, I would also avow that happy endings were never difficult to find, as long as we knew where to look. It is simply a matter of finding a place of solace, where perhaps the sun is able to penetrate the gloomy sky. Maybe a garden, where the light is golden and the grass is soft; somewhere to rest, to stop reading, and to be content with however life might have unfolded. To not get wrapped up in loose ends, because there are many, and so many more to come. To realise that it's not about having the last word, or getting a confusion of guilt or shame, or an apology that rings hollow after all these years of silence. It begins, in fact, with simply looking up at the sun, and knowing that, despite everything, you did the best you could.
