One of my favorite poets, Neruda, writes close to the bone. Though I know only a little Spanish, I like to compare the Spanish and English lines and see how the translator worked.

It was one of those perfect fall days when the air is cool enough to wake you up but the sun is also kissing your face.

The painful things seemed like knots on a beautiful necklace, necessary for keeping the beads in place.

Why did I not know that birth is the pinnacle where women discover the courage to become mothers?

The more a daughter knows the details of her mother's life [...] the stronger the daughter.

I am so honored to be the vessel into which you pour this story of pain and strength.

It is terrible how much has been forgotten, which is why, I suppose, remembering seems a holy thing.