Her father was the face of her morning and night, he was everything, so saturating Havaa’s world that she could no more describe him than she could the air.

There is something miraculous in the way the years wash away your evidence, first you, then your friends and family, then the descendants who remember your face, until you aren’t even a memory, you’re only carbon, no greater than your atoms, and time will divide them as well.

We twist our souls around each other’s miseries.

Inside us there is a word we cannot pronounce, and that is who we are.

Sleep just a while longer, that's it, where else can you go where you neither suffer nor cause suffering.

How often is immense sadness mistaken for courage?

But there had to be a quota. An upper limit to the number of miracles one is privileged to in a lifetime. How many times can a beloved reappear?