Sometimes, she said, mostly to herself, I feel I do not know my children... It was a fleeting statement, one I didn't think she'd hold on to; after all, she had birthed us alone, diapered and fed us, helped us with homework, kissed and hugged us, poured her love into us. That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.

I was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.

We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.

It is so often surprising, who rescues you at your lowest moments.

Large meadows are lovely for picnics and romping, but they are for the lighter feelings. Meadows do not make me want to write.

and I get refill number three or four and the wine is making my bones loose and it's giving my hair a red sheen and my breasts are blooming and my eyes feel sultry and wise and the dress is water.

You're the perfect girl', he said, rubbing his chin. 'You expect nothing.