"Do you think we will ever really know?" she asked as her eyes skirted the room.
"Know what?" her mother replied.
"The point of it all..."
"Point of what?"
"All of this. This time we spend here breathing.This excuse we call life. All these faces, all these smiles, all these memories, all these tears. Will we ever understand it? These bits that make up everything we feel and we are. These senses that are everything in one moment and gone the next?" her face went pale and sullen. Deep emphasis trembled in her eyes.
"I suppose that is the point," her mother replied. The warm sun bled through the window casting shadows on her face. In the pale afternoon light, her mother looked quite old to her. Though her cheeks were still rosy and her skin still young, her eyes were quite tired. They looked as eyes look when they have seen far more than they bargained for.
"What do you mean that is the point?" she replied with a slight pitch in her voice.
"Well, I suppose that's the point of life. To wonder, to feel, to experience, and to impact. I don't think we ever really know the point of it all... just that there must be one. And that point is worth spending a whole life to figure out."
She smiled, "I hope your right, mother. I hope your right."
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