When I’m Fifty


I will be 50 in 11 years. When I am 50…

My children will be 24, 22, and 17.

I will have lived in my little red house for 26 years.

It will have been 31 years since I met the father of my children.

It will have been fifteen years since we parted ways.

I will have been sober for fifteen years.

I will have been a Christian for 13 years.

Those are the only things I know for sure (God willing). They are the things that make up the frame of my house but what other materials I choose to complete my house are unknown to me.

That is exciting.

But why stop at 50? The average life expectancy of a female in the United States is estimated to be 81.47 years. So in 11 years, when I am 50, I will only have 31.47 years left on this Earth.


There’s not much time is there?

39, 50, 18, 102…

When you think about it the numbers are irrelevant because in the end, as James says,

Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.

We only have one chance to build this house of ours. Each kind word is a piece of drywall, each generous gesture is a wooden beam. Love, kindness, generosity, compassion, forgiveness are all the materials, supplied by the most righteous general contractor, we need in order to make our house beautiful not only for us who live there but for all those passing by and entering in.


There are different corridors in my mind, winding round, over, under, near and far, steps leading to steps that abruptly fall away to nothing. It’s something to walk these halls followed by and following the echoes of my footsteps like mischievous sprites leading me astray.

Each corridor is different as if it were some bizarre cubist masterpiece, deconstructed and reconstructed until it no longer resembles me and resembles only me. What is this now? My nose is my eye and my eyes are my mouth squinting into a smile, salivating or crying, while my lips are pursed as an ear. My ear? My darling little ear with darling little teeth. He was once in love with my ears but they would bite his kisses now and spit them to the ground.

Sour kisses.

Bitter taste.

No more of him. He is nothing but ashes in the corridor eternally ravaged by flames.

There is another corridor far away, must be a day and a life’s journey to reach. The walls are painted white, a pure, guiltless white. My fingers caress in a line, sighing and moaning, as I walk the length. The floor is covered with grass, new grass with an unheard of shade of green.

What color were his eyes? Hazel? Blue? I never knew. His skin was soft, though I never touched, never felt. But I could tell. I am a mother and mothers can always tell.

Oh that I could have touched. Would I have touched? Descended the stair? Tasted the peach? No. Fingers tremble at the thought and hide themselves away with their sighs and their moans, away.

I come upon a hole drilled into the wall by a very ambitious carpenter bee and I know by the honey dripping from the hole this is the spot. I lean my body into the wall, my breasts against an invisible chest, palms flat against the smooth surface, and I look inside.

There he is, that one I never knew with eyes of hazel or blue. I see him standing there, sitting there, walking back and forth. I only ever knew him in a box. Four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. And of course there was always the door. Saying goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

Always saying goodbye.

He is ethereal, intangible, becoming a ghost. The details, the words, the memories like smoke. But the essence still remains. The essence of him, of me, of an us that never was and never will be.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

Always goodbye.

Daily Post: Ghost



I was carried once on my Father’s shoulders. He was a tall man, a handsome man, and a giant in my eyes before I learned better. I only remember it ever having occurred, my riding high on his shoulders, once. Perhaps it happened more, but if it did, the memories are lost to me.

I don’t remember my mother ever carrying me. Even though I was in love with her long black hair and the way she twirled it around her fingers, the softness of her stomach, the comfort of her breasts…I do not remember her ever carrying me. Perhaps she did, certainly she must have, but if she did, the memories are lost to me.

My husband, no longer my husband, carried me once. Actually I believe it was twice and always in the water. Please don’t think it was because I was too heavy. No, it just so happened he was too weak. He may have carried me more but he never did. That I am certain of.

As for me, I have carried a lot. Guilt, remorse, anger, hatred, love…so much love, all the love that can be contained in three children, above all in my three children, but not just in three children. I’ve carried it in countless children I’ve taught, in the dogs at the kennel I once cared for, in the few friendships I’ve held, in the father that once carried me and the mother that never did and even, yes even, in the husband who is no longer the husband who was too weak to carry me.



Shame Can Be A Good Thing

It is quiet in this house. Three boys sleep peacefully upstairs, still dreaming about their adventures in Minecraft and Roblox, unaware of the turbulence growing within the sea. Two have just entered their teens and one is but eleven. Children still.

The girl-child, the smallest at only six, is asleep on the pullout couch just across from me. She is surrounded by an army of her stuffed animals, unaware of the turbulence growing deep down within the sea.

I look around me, try not to look around me, so as to remain blissful, ignorant, blissfully ignorant, and for the most part I am successful.

But every once in a while I stumble, fall, and open my eyes to look around. This morning I stumbled onto a blog. It was about shame and not feeling shame. I believe a quote from Anais Nin led the post. So as you can imagine, the post was in favor of not feeling shame.

On certain accounts I also protest the devastating effects of shame. Victim shaming is despicable. Body shaming is another harmful form of shame. Once, in sixth grade, I was humiliated and deeply shamed when I had a moment while doing sit-ups in gym. I came up and something came out (in the form of a loud noxious gas). Suffice it to say, I still don’t do sit ups.

I suppose any emotion can be manipulated but I think in its truest and purest form, shame is a good thing. It is the firm look, a reproachful look, of a wise and loving mother.

If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end; if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin, and in the end, despair.  ~ C. S. Lewis

It is a soft nudge, a gentle poke, that whispers to you, “This is not ok. What you are doing is not ok. Perhaps you should reconsider.”

There are two kinds of people: those who say to God, ‘Thy will be done,’ and those to whom God says, ‘All right, then, have it your way.’ ~ C. S. Lewis

It is the teacher, the guide, the guardian holding you accountable, not only for the choices you make that affect you, but the choices you make which affects others.

There are very few people who are going to look into the mirror and say, ‘That person I see is a savage monster; instead, they make up some construction that justifies what they do ~ Noam Chomsky

The social construction that causes me worry, that agitates my mind, is the one in which people, specifically women, justify having affairs with married men. I speak specifically of women because I am one. It means a lot to me. I feel a shared sense of solidarity with other women. I care for them. Deeply.

I also speak specifically of women because I think that we hold incredible power and influence. When that power and influence is focused on destroying marital vows, eroding the meaning of marriage, and in the process harming other women and children, it is disheartening to say the least.

The blog I stumbled upon was written by a woman who is in the midst of another affair with a married man. The post was justifying the decision to ignore that healthy feeling of shame and instead feel pride for the decisions she has made.


Life is an incredible adventure, but it is not an adventure we take alone. It is exciting to think that each decision we make is weaving a story, each decision we make is creating a future. But it is not our story alone; it is not our future alone.

I think about the boys asleep upstairs playing with dreams and I think about the small girl-child who is beginning to stir. I strive, battle, fight to create a world in which they can trust, in which love abounds, and commitments are real, a world in which people still do the right thing.

But one day they will leave the world I have made for them and they will step out into the world that is being co-created by all of you: people who do not cheat, lie, and steal and by people who do cheat, lie, and steal. A world created by people seeking the good for themselves and a world created by people seeking good for all.

And that knowledge right there, well…it scares the hell out of me.










Obsessed With…

There are many things I could claim an obsession with: chocolate, coffee, sleeping. But they are not true obsessions. They do not occupy my mind at all times.

There is only one thing that truly fills the space in my mind, reaching back to the most remote crevices, and that is faith.

But not just any faith, faith in God.

And not just any God, but the God, my God, the Christian God.

I completely understand if someone believes in something else. What I don’t understand, or perhaps understand but don’t agree with, is when they speak in generalities so as not to offend someone of a different faith.

Once I had a man say the usual thing, “…whatever you believe in, God, Allah, a feather…”

Wait. What? I was following him until he threw in the feather. But that is what it eventually comes down to. If you believe in God, proclaim it. If you believe in Allah, proclaim it. If you believe in Vishnu, proclaim it. I understand the fear of offending someone in our hypersensitive society, but that fear is watering everything down. It is watering down meaning.

Anyhow, I digress. Or maybe I don’t.

Obsession with my faith. Yes. There we go.

I must constantly think about my faith because it is constantly called into question, and not simply by non-believers, but even more so by believers.

I’ve  met with my Jehovah Witness friends for years now much to the horror of my Catholic friends. My Church of Christ friends have something to say about both my JW friends and my Catholic friends.

They are all followers of Christ. What separates them is their different interpretations of scripture. Baptism and age requirement, validity of the Trinity, and the afterlife are just a few.

The confusion and doubt comes because all of these beautiful people believe they are interpreting the scripture correctly, that God is giving his approval of their interpretation. But surely God cannot approve conflicting interpretations, or to put it another way, they can’t all be right.

I do believe in God and I do believe in an objective truth. I do believe in an absolute morality. I’m just not exactly positive what it fully is.

And so I find myself alone, not a member of any particular branch of Christianity, but still a member of the church because thankfully the church is not contained in a brick building or white clapboard structure, but it is in the body of Christ.

I am often times confused. I talk, I listen, I read, I try. And while I do all of those things I keep two scriptures in the back of my mind.

John 2:24-25

But Jesus would not entrust himself to them, for he knew all people. He did not need any testimony about mankind, for he knew what was in each person.

I will not put my faith in the hands of any man. I put it in God only.

1 Corinthians 1:19

 For it is written:

I will destroy the wisdom of the wise; the intelligence of the intelligent I will frustrate.

I will also not put faith in myself. I put it in God only.

And so I will continue to talk, listen, read, and try – try to understand. I will ask for forgiveness for the things I can’t understand and for the things I think I understand but are actually wrong.

And above all I will keep my faith.



The Case of the Missing Trains

Thirteen years. Where has the time gone? Is it hiding in the recesses of a darkened closet filled with forgotten stuffed animals and broken, fragmented toys? A missing arm to a baby doll here, an absent wheel of a little match car there. Fragmented.

Is it sleeping beneath the bed next to a lost sock, forever separated from its other half? How easy it is to lose each other, how frequent the loss. But what good is just one when the one was meant to be two? Separated.

Can it be waiting in the dusty and neglected attic among the boxes and blue plastic tubs filled with memories that tear at the heart and holiday traditions waiting to die? An old sticker book filled with the Cabbage Patch Stickers and scratch-n-sniff that strangely enough still have a faint scent after thirty-odd years. An even older maroon leather coat passed down to me by an aunt who first passed away. The same leather coat I wore on that night, the night he kissed me under a yellow moon or was it a mid-day sun?

Thirteen very long years in the blink of an eye.

Where has the time gone?

I don’t ask myself that question very often because the answer would frighten me. Frighten me enough, perhaps, to pack a suit case and drive across the country, leaving behind my home, my family, my life as everyone knows it, and take back three hours. Oh what I would do with three extra hours.

But of course those three extra hours would come at a cost, so no. I don’t ask that question very often.

So what has spurred on this remembrance of passing time, this unfortunate and unwanted recognition that time has indeed passed while I was busy walking down the cereal aisle, walking down, walking up, turning right, turning left, step after step after step?

It is the trains, or in my case it is the missing trains.

This is where the case is made beautifully for subjectivity.

Trains. What are trains?

Well they’re not just any trains, they’re Thomas the Tank Engine Trains.

Thomas the Tank Engine Trains. What are Thomas the Tank Engine Trains? A bit of wood, plastic, magnets and paint?

Yes. And then again..no. They’re a bit of my sons, a bit of a moment in time when they were mine, belonging to me and no other, a time when I was the woman in their life, the only woman, the only name. A time when my hand would swallow theirs up, a time when I could carry them close to my breast, a time when their universe was tiny and so I filled up all of the space.

But now their universe has expanded, is expanding, will continue to expand and I am shrinking. Even to my daughter, my youngest, so small. Her universe contains an alternate world with a different home, a different mother figure, a different life. How big her universe is! How small I begin to feel.

But I hold onto memories because time is contained in them. Not many anymore, but there are still some that have meaning worth holding onto. The trains are tangible reminders of a past time that was good and of a future time I hope will be. I have visions of telling my grandchildren when they come to visit that their fathers once played with the very same trains. I will remember as their little hands move them down the wooden tracks that many of them were potty rewards.

Then I will chuckle as I remember my first-born sitting on the training potty while watching Thomas on the television. I will remember how much importance that moment, the moment he made pee pees in the potty, held. The sheer joy when he succeeded and so I succeeded, and alternately, the disappointment when he did not succeed and so I did not either.

But now those trains are gone. Not all, but some. I did not notice at first. Other feet come and go through my house. And one pair of feet belongs to a very sweet boy who loves Thomas the Tank Engine. He has special needs and there are things about him that I must accept because they are things that will not change because they cannot change. He picks at things, tears things, rips things, breaks things, opens things, but I did not realize he also took things.

It’s been a few weeks and I’ve gotten Fergus back and Mavis with a very sincere apology from the sweet boy who loves Thomas the Tank Engine. I also got Diesel Ten back but it’s not my Diesel Ten because the paint is scratched off of the bottom. My Diesel Ten is gone now. Forever. I’m still missing a couple of Thomas trains: a Percy, a James, and an Edward. But they are gone now as well.

Even if they were returned I could not be certain they were the same ones that the little fingers of my sons once touched. And if I cannot be certain, well then, I suppose I don’t want them back.

So I am packing the trains away now in that dusty, neglected attic in an attempt to save what remains. I am sad I will never see my Thomas,  James, Percy, or Edward. A part of me, of my sons, of that time is lost. I will buy new ones though and when I take them down from the attic I will remember my little sons and their little hands and that happy time but there will be something else.

I will remember they once had a friend, a very sweet boy who loved Thomas the Tank. I will remember all of his quirks, the sound of his voice and the way he would repeat words. I will remember his love of Ritz crackers and how he would ask me if he could have some only after eating two whole sleeves. I will remember all of the little things that go into making a person an individual.

I will remember him.








Innocence Lost

Lost innocence does not occur all at once like an epiphany illuminated by a brilliant bolt of lightning. It is a gradual thing, like peeling layers of wallpaper away from a wall, one layer at a time. As we grow older and are exposed to the world and its history, each new experience, bit of knowledge, sliver of new understanding is like a layer of wall paper being peeled away from our understanding of ourselves, our world, and our place in the world.

It was the summer of my twelfth year when one layer of my world view began to peel painfully away. It was a day like any other with the smell of suntan lotion and salt intermingling to create a concoction that triggered so many memories of summer days on the beach. I had a new bikini. I had never worn one before and thought I looked very sporty in the white bikini with red stripes. We had just laid our towels out on the sand when two boys in their teens invited me to play Frisbee. They were French and I could not understand much of what they said but I was so flattered and proud that two older boys, and French no less, would want to play with me. I felt so special, so mature, so much like what I thought a woman must feel. like.

As they were taking turns throwing the Frisbee to me, I noticed they were throwing far to the side and farther out into the water. I thought it odd they had such bad aim and it was just about that time I noticed them snickering. Apparently the rose-colored flesh of my nipples was showing through the white material of my bikini top. I flushed red with humiliation and retreated to my towel.

When I was a girl, before the pains puberty and aches of adolescence, I had many ideas of what it was to be a woman. Women were hardworking. Women were smart. Women were strong. Women had so much love to give. Women were caregivers. Women were all of these things and I was going to be one.

And all it took was a bit of white material, some salty ocean water, and the snickers of two boys to realize that all of my former ideas of what it meant to be a woman, all of the beautiful attributes I associated with being a woman, would always come under and after the rose-colored flesh of my nipples.


Diving Beneath the Surface

I have dived beneath the surface, holding my breath until my chest became an unquenchable fire, straining my eyes, willing them to remain open despite the pressure, despite the unfamiliar.

I have dived beneath the surface of love to see past the meaning derived from fairytales and white stallions and princes who would never leave for that other princess with the body unravaged by childbirth.

I have seen the meaning of love swimming with sharks before disappearing inside the wreckage of a lost ship, a tomb for one-handed myths and one-eyed legends where there is no treasure to be found.

I have seen love change into something to be displayed within the soft mouth of a mollusk – a simple beauty, pure and natural. I have seen it in the aged skeleton of deep-sea corals – steady, strong, unmoving.

Yes, I have dived beneath the surface, holding my breath until my chest became an unquenchable fire, straining my eyes, willing them to remain open despite the pressure, despite the unfamiliar.

But the fire in my chest inevitably becomes too painful and threatens to consume me. The pressure behind my eyes becomes too much and threatens to rupture them. It is one thing to have sight in the unfamiliar, but to be blind?

Perhaps men are not meant to dive beneath the surface…



Watt and Nietzsche: Meaning Versus Truth

The most intriguing and dangerous characteristic of postmodernism explored, specifically and to an uncanny degree in Watt, is the idea that truth is not objective as previously believed, but subjective. This idea of subjectivity in regards to truth, which plays out through the character of Watt, is not an original premise. Friedrich Nietzsche expounded the idea thirty years earlier in his book, Beyond Good and Evil. Watt mirrors the philosophy of Nietzsche, one in which man has indeed killed God and in the process truth. Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of Nietzsche’s philosophy is the prophetic tone of it, “But just under the surface…lay a fatal, festering cultural sickness: modernity” (Soccio 570).  Watt is a perfect example of Nietzsche’s prognosis of the modern sickness – death of meaning by postmodernism.

“WHAT really is this ‘Will to Truth’ in us…Granted that we want the truth: WHY NOT RATHER untruth? And uncertainty? Even ignorance? The problem of the value of truth presented itself before us—or was it we who presented ourselves before the problem? Which of us is the Oedipus here? Which the Sphinx…And could it be believed that it at last seems to us as if the problem had never been propounded before, as if we were the first to discern it, get a sight of it, and RISK RAISING it? For there is risk in raising it, perhaps there is no greater risk” (Nietzsche 3). As Nietzsche argues, there is a definite risk in destroying the concept of God and with it the concept of an objective truth. In a present day cultural sense, this loss of meaning due to subjectivity can be seen in the concept of marriage. No longer is marriage between a man and woman, but now it is between a man and a woman, a man and a man, or a woman and a woman. Now marriage is no longer considered a life-long commitment to one person until “death do them part” but a life-long commitment until one person or the other is no longer committed for life and decides to remake the life-long commitment with a different person. This loss of meaning can also be found now in the subjective meaning of sex and gender. One does not need the DNA any longer to decide sex or gender. Science and one’s own will are the determining factor now.

The loss of meaning in such traditional institutions as marriage and natural, biological occurrences as sex can be related to the scene in Watt where he begins lamenting over a pot which is no longer a pot. “Looking at a pot, for example, or thinking of a pot, at one of Mr. Knott’s pots, of one of Mr. Knott’s pots, it was in vain that Watt said, Pot, pot…For it was not a pot, the more he looked, the more he reflected, the more he felt sure of that, that it was not a pot at all” (Beckett 81). When one reflects on what it means to be a man or a woman, one must certainly realize it has lost its exclusive meaning with hormone therapy and transgender operations. As it is with the idea of marriage. The more one reflects on marriage and its subjective meaning the more one realizes that it is not really marriage at all. “It resembled a pot, it was almost a pot, but it was not a pot of which one could say, Pot, pot, and be comforted. It was in vain that it answered, with unexceptional adequacy, all the purposes, and preformed all the offices, of a pot, it was not a pot” (Beckett 81).

Nietzsche writes about those not renouncing objectivity, that they will “in the end always prefers a handful of “certainty” to a whole cartload of beautiful possibilities; there may even be puritanical fanatics of conscience, who prefer to put their last trust in a sure nothing, rather than in an uncertain something” (7). But it can be equally argued that when multiple meanings are given to one thing then it, in effect, loses all meaning. Therefore that cartload of beautiful possibilities is meaningless as is that “uncertain something.” Perhaps what lies beneath the argument of objectivity versus subjectivity is not truth but meaning. As Watt concludes, “And it was just this hairbreadth departure from the nature of a true pot that so excruciated Watt. For if approximation had been less close, then Watt would have been less anguished. For then he would not have said, This is a pot, and yet not a pot, no, but then he would have said, This is something of which I do not know the name” (81).

In conclusion, perhaps one should ask, just what is the risk Nietzsche was referring to in rejecting objective truth and embracing subjectivity. What is the risk of trading in the handful of certainty for the cart full of beautiful possibilities? What is the risk sacrificing the true pot for one that resembles it but lacks meaning? If the story of Watt is taken into consideration, the story of his confusion, his pain, and his institutionalization, then the risk Nietzsche is referring to is insanity – a collective and individual insanity. Is it worth the risk?



Beckett, Samuel. Watt. NY: Grove Press. 1953. Print.

Nietzsche, Friedrich. Beyond Good and Evil. NY: Random House. 1966. Print.

Soccio, Douglas. Archetypes of Wisdom: An Introduction to Philosophy. 3rd ed. Belmont: Wadsworth Publishing. 1998. Print.

Watt’s Garden

Samuel Beckett’s novel, Watt, is a perfect example of postmodernist literature. From the unreliable narrator (an inmate at an insane asylum certainly qualifies) to the temporal shifts (the beginning of the story does not actually appear in chapter one), Beckett takes the reader on a strange often times incomprehensible postmodern journey. The post-modern characteristic that really makes an impact is Beckett’s use of magical realism – a method which fuses incredible, whimsical, or impossible scenarios into a narrative so that the abnormal seems normal. The scene in which this technique is illustrated beautifully is in part three in which the narrator, Sam, is wandering alone in his garden in the insane asylum until he is compelled towards the fence.

Sam and Watt once walked together in a mutual garden but eventually Watt is transferred and so walks in a different garden. Sam begins to make an account of meeting Watt after being separated, “Then one fine day, of unparalleled brightness and turbulence, I found my steps impelled, as though by some external agency, towards the fence.” From the beginning of his account, the reader is given a picture of incomparable and unusual brightness. Then, he is compelled by some unknown force to walk to the fence which he would “never have gone near…under any circumstances.” The garden and the strolling in the garden are both very real and reasonable things. However, intermixed with the unusual brightness and the great commotion or agitation, or perhaps irregular atmospheric motion, depending on which definition of turbulence is applied, as well as the unknown force compelling Sam’s trajectory and there is most definitely a sense of something magical afoot.

Sam inspects the wall and comes to the conclusion there is an adjoining garden and within the adjoining garden is Watt walking backwards toward Sam, “His progress was slow and devious, on account no doubt of his having no eyes in the back of his head, and painful too.”  Sam describes Watt as bumping into the trees, getting caught in brambles, briars, nettles, and thistles. It appears to be a struggle, and a painful one, for Watt to walk the distance of the garden because for an inexplicable reason he chooses to walk backwards. Can Watt be under some invisible compulsion as it seems Sam is?

When Watt finally reaches the fence, the fence where Sam is observing, Watt turns around to most likely walk backwards back the way he came. Sam is able to see his face and the image that is described inspires a mixture of feelings, “His face was bloody, his hands also, and the rest of his front, and thorns were in his scalp.” Sam remarks on the resemblance of Watt to a Bosh painting of Christ. At the moment the image of Christ comes to Sam, he seems to have an existentialist moment where he feels he is standing before a mirror in which his garden, the birds, his very self is being reflected so much so that he feels his face to make certain that he is not in fact the one with blood and thorns. It is a moment when Sam is unable to tell his reality from Watt’s, where the two magically, if only for a moment, become one.

In Watt fashion, he asks Sam (starting from the end of the sentence to the beginning) for a hanky to wipe away the blood which strikes at the compassionate chord in Sam. He astonishingly enough manages to find a large, irregular hole in his fence in which he can crawl to the opening between the two gardens. He is surprised to find the exact same hole in the fence to Watt’s garden and speculates wildly about raging bulls filled with carnal desires or relentless rain that might have made such a hole.

Watt is no longer visible but when Sam cries out to him he emerges from behind a tree with his pants on backwards. He proceeds to walk backwards to Sam until Sam can pull him through the hole so that they are both standing together in the area between the two gardens. Sam pulls out a cloth, ointment, a hand comb, and a cloth brush from his pocket. It is certainly absurd he would have these items going for a leisurely walk but there is also a sort of magic to it. Sam anoints Watt’s face and hands (like the face and hands of a crucified Christ) as if he were a prophet, set apart to do a task for God.

Then ensues a dance, or what might be considered a dance. With their hands on each other’s shoulders they move back and forth as if man were dancing with Christ and as Sam describes, “Then turning, as one man, we paced back the way we had come, I looking whither we were going, and he looking whence we were coming.” Though it is clear, on the surface, that one sanitarium inmate found another and perhaps they are both insane pacing back and forth in an embrace, the image the reader takes away is a magical moment in between two gardens (perhaps one is Eden and the other earth) where man and God are reconciled.

Though Beckett used many components of postmodernism such as absurdity, irony, and black humor, it is his use of magical realism in the garden scene between Sam and Watt that is the most beautiful and touching throughout the entire novel. It is also through this component of magical realism that Beckett is able to rejoice in the constantly shifting and fragmented world with its subjectivity. As Sam says it best, “To be together again, after so long, who love the sunny wind, the windy sun, in the sun, in the wind, that is perhaps something, perhaps something.”