I also like the whole idea of fairy tales and folk tales being a woman's domain, considered a lesser domain at the time they were told.

Abra DeMadrigal didn't look young enough to be my sister anymore. Her sorrow weighed her down and aged her. She was still beautiful, but she looked very far away. No wonder our people had raven eyes, so distant, so sad. No matter how wise she was, my mother looked like a woman who hadn't truely believed how much evil there was in our world. Not until this moment.

My grandmother told me once that when you lose somebody you think you've lost the whole world as well, but that's not the way things turn out in the end. Eventually, you pick yourself up and look out the window, and once you do you see everything that was there before the world ended is out there still. There are the same apple trees and the same songbirds, and over our heads, the very same sky that shines like heaven, so far above us we can never hope to reach such heights.

That was the way love was, invisible, there whether or not you wanted to see it or admit to it.

Just because something is unspoken doesn't mean that it disappears.

Another world must surely exist somewhere one where she would be known in some deep way that was far beyond words.

He was in love, and people in that condition did stupid, unfathomable things. They were all flawed, every single one.