Fairytales were maps formed of blood and hair and bones; they were the knots of the sub-conscious unwound. Every word in every tale was real and as true as apples and stones. They all led to the story inside the story.

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.

Margaret thought of all she knew for certain, that day would always follow night that love was never wasted nor was it lost.

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

And then I understood that she had no idea what she'd done to my family. She thought love and hatred were equal.

My mother, Abra, had taught me that all people are made from the same dust. When our days here are gone, all men and women enter the same garden.

That is how you know you've left childhood behind-when you wish for time to go backward.