My sorrow is I used to read all the time and now, as a writer, I don't have the time to read.

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

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.

It wasn't right to have someone charge into you your world without even asking, acting as if you were nothing more than an egg to be flipped and flopped, sunny-side up or scrambled, depending on the whims on whoever ran your life..._

I heard a sigh, as though the books were breathing. I felt that this was where I belonged. This was where I lived.

Every time someone forgets, someone else disappears,' my brother wrote.

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