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

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

Love is not simply the sum of sweet greetings and wrenching partings and kisses and embraces, but is made up more of the memory of what has happened and the imagining of what is to come.

Sydney discovers that she minds the loss of her mourning. When she grieved, she felt herself to be intimately connected to Daniel. But with each passing day, he floats away from her. When she thinks about him now, it is more as a lost possibility than as a man. She has forgotten his breath, his musculature.

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

There are more experiences in life than you’d think for which there are no words.

I think about the hurt that stories cannot ease, not with a thousand tellings.