As a writer, you live in such isolation. It's hard to imagine your book has a life beyond you.

The word friends doesn't seem to stretch big enough to describe how we feel about each other. We forget where one of us starts and the other one stops.

I did the searching and remembering, she did the disappearing and the forgetting.

Please don't judge me too much until you are older and know more things. (Spoken from mother to daughter)

What made you feel that stomach-churning agony for one person and not another? If Bridget were God, she would have made it against the law for you to feel that way about someone without them having to feel it for you right back.

But like everything else, love changed.

The weather turned. Her skin seemed to grow a million extra pores, and all of them opened to take in the warmth and tenderness of the air. The sun on her face made her want to cry. Into all those millions of open pores came the sunshine, and other feelings as well. In and out. She was porous.