You build your world around someone, and then what happens when he disappears? Where do you go-into pieces, into atoms, into the arms of another man? You go shopping, you cook dinner, you work odd hours, you make love to someone else on June nights. But you're not really there.

I was beginning to understand.My grandmother's love was cold because she was afraid of things;that was why everything had to be perfect.

This was what it meant to be human, to know that time moved and all things changed.

Some things you cannot wish away or think away. They become part of you when you remember them.

Cleaning up after themselves was a low priority for Margo and my mother. They had both recovered from cancer scares, failed marriages, and lost hope; in their opinion, dirt could wait.

She was disappearing a little more each day, so thin, so frail, a wisp of smoke. One day she would surely vanish altogether, and there was no way to stop her.

Our rest is formed by our waking life and our waking life is formed by our sorrows.