It’s the question. The question you feel in your stomach when it’s late and quiet in your room. Alone. When the music has stopped and the television is turned off and the book is closed. The question we fill our days to avoid. The question that appears loud and unspoken in the eyes of our children, so easily distracted with an ice cream cone. The question in the darkness. And in that darkness there’s a door. Look closely and you can see light pouring under the door, through the cracks, at the hinges. A light so bright it might possibly obliterate everything:our rooms our music our books our bodies our nervous promises to our children and every untouched ice cream cone. The light that will shine on our complicated darkness and expose the simple question we’re so afraid to ask. It’s not the darkness we fear, it’s the light behind the door. It’s not the answer we can’t hear, it’s the question we won’t ask.