I think about my mother singing after lunch on a Summer afternoon, twirling in blue dress across the floor of her dressing room

When the woman you live with is an artist, every day is a surprise.

It's funny how we like labels. If I ever have a bookstore, I'm not going to put any labels on the sections.

There is only one page left to write on. I will fill it with words of only one syllable. I love. I have loved. I will love.

Running is many things to me: survival, calmness, euphoria, solitude. It is proof of my corporeal existence, my ability to control my movement through space if not time, and the obedience, however temporary, of my body to my will. As I run I displace air, and things come and go around me, and the path moves like a filmstrip beneath my feet.

I won't ever leave you, even though you're always leaving me.

What we need,' Henry says, 'is a fresh start. A blank slate. Let's call her Tabula Rasa.