My grief was cold. It was nothing to share. It was nothing to speak about, nothing to feel.

He'd thought he was lost, but now he recognized that eternity was around him, like salt from a shaker or stars in the sky.

I wept to think that life went on even when so much had been lost, that rain still fell and myrtle grew between the rocks.

People hide their truest nature. I understood that; I even applauded it. What sort of world would it be if people bled all over the sidewalks, if they wept under trees, smacked whomever they despised, kissed strangers, revealed themselves?

There was the blue sky above her and all those many roses, the ones that gave off the scent of cloves in the rain and the ones that left a trace of lemon on your fingers, the ones that were the color of blood, and those that were as white as clouds. Each one was sweeter than the next and as red as gemstones.

I'm a really eclectic reader.

Always keep mint on your windowsill in August, to ensure that buzzing flies will stay outside, where they belong. Don't think the summer is over, even when roses droop and turn brown and the stars shift position in the sky. Never presume August is a safe or reliable time of the year.