Pain is fear, and I'm not afraid.

There was nothing new in sitting on this dock, on this or that wooden bench, watching for his boat to come. In some ways, she was always waiting for him.

There was love expressed in the places you usually forget to look.

She used to cry roughly three times a year. Now she seemed to cry three times before breakfast. Could that be considered progress?

I allowed myself to suffer how jarringly destructive the present feels and how fragile the past.

There was a moment in between, a moment flung free in the midst of the transition, when he made contact. That was the moment she would dwell on.

Luck never gives; it lends.