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.

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

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

With my hand in his, I looked at all the apartment buildings with rushes of love, peering in the wide streetside windows that revealed living rooms painted in dark burgandies and matte reds.

When language is treated beautifully and interestingly, it can feel good for the body: It's nourishing; it's rejuvenating.

I was right at the edge of their circle, like the tail of a Q...

It seemed to happen in springs, the revealing of things.