I have a sort of Christmas-morning sense of the library as a big box full of beautiful books.

The engagement ring is an emerald, and the dim light from the window is refracted green and white in it. The rings are silver, and they need cleaning. They need wearing, and I know just the girl to wear them.

He looks sad. Or maybe that's just how he looks when he isn't doing something else with his face.

We are walking down the street holding hands. There is a playground at the end of the block, and I run to the swings and I climb on and Henry takes the one next to me facing the opposite direction. And we swing higher and higher passing each other, sometimes in synch and sometimes streaming past each other so fast that it seems we are going to collide. And we laugh and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one can be lost or dead or far away. Right now we are here and nothing can mar our perfection or steal the joy of this perfect moment.

I feel that I an everything to her.

I don't want to boss anyone and I don't want to be bossed.

It's hard being left behind. (...) It's hard to be the one who stays.