Children don't heal as well.. they change.. they mutate with disaster and make accomodations.

Odd, she thought, how intensely you knew a person, or thought you did, when you were in love - soaked, drenched in love - only to discover later that perhaps you didn't know that person quite as well as you had imagined. Or weren't quite as well known as you had hoped to be. In the beginning, a lover drank in every word and gesture and then tried to hold on to that intensity for as long as possible. But inevitable, if two people were together long enough, that intensity had to wane.

love is ... something extraordinary that happens to ordinary people.

the enduring struggle to capture in words the infinite possibilities of a life not lived.

That I have no right to be jealous is irrelevant. It is a human passion: the sick, white underbelly of love.

And she thought then how strange it was that disaster--the sort of disaster that drained the blood from your body and took the air out of your lungs and hit you again and again in the face--could be at times, such a thing of beauty.

A single action can cause a life to veer off in a direction it was never meant to go.